The King's Sisters

by Sarah Kennedy

  Ann said, “I would have had to stop my ears with her wool not to hear.”

  “And I have worked to steer her back into his bed. I have prayed for it.”

  “Lady Anne.”

  “And she has been always kind to me. I have lied, straight to her face, and have smiled like a cat in the cream when she spoke of being queen.”

  Ann plucked a speck of dust from her skirt. “You thought it best.”

  “I thought it best for me. And would I not have put a witch’s potion in her cup to make her beautiful to him if I had had the skill? I have played her like a piece on one of her game boards. To smooth my own path.”

  Ann kept her eyes straight ahead. “And you failed. You still have no permission, and if you make this marriage, you will answer for it to the king. So there is no sin done. But to yourself.”

  “If a failed wish is no sin, then Margaret has committed fewer sins than we have laid at her charge.”

  Ann reached over and held onto Catherine’s arm. “You will shake something loose at this pace, and then you’ll have to be married in your sickbed.”

  Catherine reined in her ride and put back her head to let the sun strike her face. “And the Lady Anne will have no marriage at all.”

  “May she find happiness in remaining the King’s Sister.”

  Catherine was riding with her eyes closed, letting the sky etch its unreadable script into the blackness behind her lids. Ann said only “Who is that?” and Catherine dropped her head to look. A rider was coming at them, churning a foam of dust behind.

  Ann said, “Joseph? Who is it?”

  He shook his head. “He comes at quite a pace.”

  They lost the rider around a corner, then he reappeared, coming at them at full speed. It was Reg. He had to turn his gelding three times to bring it to a halt. The horse took its stand with its forelegs extended, blowing through its nostrils.

  “What is it?” asked Catherine.

  “Master Benjamin says we must get you married before the report of it reaches the king’s ears. He is saddled to ride to Mount Grace. He has your daughter. You must come and meet him on the road.”

  47

  Catherine and Ann kicked their horses into motion. At the crossroads beyond the House, they saw Benjamin, with Veronica propped in front of him, ahead on the road to Mount Grace, and they all gave their animals their heads. The hedges and ditches rushed by as though they fled down a green river. They came into a long open stretch, and the sun hit Catherine’s face. She could see bright color—red and yellow—pounding at the edges of her eyes, and as the gelding’s hooves bumped along like the beat of her heart, she matched her breathing to his.

  “Have a care,” called Ann. Her voice seemed to come through Catherine’s skin. “Don’t fall.”

  Catherine tried to say yes, but her word floated away on the wind. They rode more slowly, and her horse blew through his nostrils. They passed tenant houses and broad fields of sheep. They banged over the old wooden bridge that spanned the little river and by the time the sun was casting a gold gloaming light, they were passing the first cottages to the west of Mount Grace. Then again they ran, and slowed until the horses regained their breaths, then ran again. Catherine’s mount finally began to wheeze, and she said, “Slow down. I will break him.”

  They all pulled up to a canter, then a fast walk. Benjamin’s Caesar still strained forward, and he said, “Ho now, boy. Steady.” The panting of her own horse echoed through Catherine, as though she could hear his animal blood speaking.

  They started up the last hill, and Benjamin said, “No one can catch us now.”

  Catherine knew this hill as well as she knew the shapes of her own feet. The hedges were clipped more closely than in her childhood, and three new cottages had been built for the workers, but the soft roll of the land, away into the gorse, was unchanged. As a child, Catherine had thought it had flowed away to God, who had laid down the swells and dips around Mount Grace at the beginning of time.

  Catherine clicked her tongue to stop her horse at a trough at the side of the road. Ann slid off, and Catherine followed, rubbing the lathered neck while the gelding drank extravagantly, snorting into the water and swishing its muzzle about.

  “We can walk from here,” said Catherine, and they led the horses the last mile. They were sweating more than the animals by the time they trudged into the village. Catherine could still not stop herself from lingering at the path to their old dwelling as they walked by, though it had been a drapery for years now. The broken stained-glass windows had been replaced with plain leaded panes, and the doors stood open. The buildings cast a long shadow over the road. A man walked out of the convent and peered at Catherine. It was one of their young weavers, the son of an Overton farmer, and when he recognized her, he bowed and called, “Lady Catherine!”

  She stopped. “Do you know if Father John is at his home?”

  “That old man. Yes, he’s here. Sitting at the public house if he’s not sitting in his own front room.”

  Catherine smiled. “He keeps regular hours?”

  “Regular as the sun in the heavens,” the young man said. “Regular as the king at his table.”

  “Take care how you speak of the king,” said Catherine. He bowed again and they walked on. Beyond her father’s home were the village square and the large house of the Justice, Kit Sillon. Same as ever, the unmoving center of a changing world. Ann took the reins and they headed through the gate toward the stables. John Bridle’s man was leaning against a post, picking his teeth with a twig.

  “Lady Catherine Overton,” he said, throwing down the stick and reaching for the reins. “You have purchased a fine new ride.”

  “He’s ridden a hard way and needs water. They all have.”

  “Yes, Madam,” he said, “and rub-downs as well.”

  Catherine’s father was coming around the hedge toward her. John Bridle had widened in the last few years, and his girth made walking a complicated event involving both forward and side-to-side motion. Catherine embraced him, and he said, “I thought I was dreaming, to see you atop that demon. And that is Ann Smith, as I live and breathe.”

  “It is,” said Ann.

  “And the man.”

  “You see three of those before you,” said Benjamin.

  “I only see one for my daughter.”

  “Father, how do you?” Catherine asked. She pushed herself back to arm’s length to observe him. His face was netted with threads of blood, but his vision looked bright, and he held her hands with a young man’s strength.

  “I do as well as any creature under God’s eye,” he said. “He keeps me in bread and good ale, and the village thrives with the new works. I have babies to christen and I’m grown fat enough to keep the widows off me.” He patted his protruding gut. “It keeps me safe from temptation.”

  “Gluttony is also a sin, old man,” said Kit Sillon, behind him. The Justice’s beard had whitened and he stooped as he clung to the oak post, staring at Catherine from under a set of startlingly opulent eyebrows.

  John Bridle put his head back and laughed at the setting sun. “God has made me a wide man, as He has made you a narrow one. It will not kill either you or your soul to be a bit broader in all ways. And it is no sin to thank God and enjoy His gifts.”

  The left side of Sillon’s mouth crept upward. “That is why I bring my moral questions to your door, Father John. And now, here’s your daughter, come to ask your favor. What do you think she’ll want this time?” A puddle collected in the right corner of his mouth as he spoke, and Sillon brushed the spit off with the back of his left hand and slung it into the road. The good eye found Catherine, then shifted to Benjamin. “You wonder, don’t you? What I suffer?” He laughed and let the drool run freely over his lip. “Age. That’s not a thing even a woman with learning can halt. Think you can heal that?” He lifted his right arm.
The fingers were brittle as old branches, and the hand trembled in the air. “Nothing for that but the grave and some hope of resurrection in a younger form.”

  Catherine said, “The body will run headlong toward the tomb despite our efforts.” She took Sillon’s ruined hand and straightened his fingers. The nails had yellowed, but someone was keeping them trimmed and clean. “Your wife does this?”

  “My wife died almost a twelve-month hence. I have a man who does for me.”

  Catherine nodded. “The most any one of us can do is slow our race back to dust.”

  “You will be wanting the agreement to this marriage of yours?”

  “If you have it finished.”

  “Finished and dry and paid for by this father of yours.” He aimed a finger at Benjamin. “You will not have title to the Overton properties or the Havens properties though you may claim profits from the sales of the wools gained thereon.” The finger wavered toward Catherine. “You will not sell the Overton lands or buildings away from your son without written permission of a court.”

  “You have put your name to it?” asked Benjamin.

  “Signed and sealed. And if the king hangs me for it, my miseries will be at their end.”

  “And the Havens lands?” asked Catherine.

  “What Havens lands? Havens is Overton now.” Sillon flung a hand at John Bridle. “You’ll also have whatever this old reprobate leaves you, and you can do whatever you want with that. I will be gone to the worms by then anyway. Race to the dust, as you say.”

  Father John bowed his head and they all let a solemn few moments pass, until Sillon said, “Why do we waste our time loitering in the road like a pack of idiots? I suppose you two want a church, like any other young couple. Bridle, you’re the one’s been whispering the banns. Will you perform for them and risk your neck?”

  Catherine chewed her lip. “I am a widow with no man over me. I have been a Havens and now I am an Overton. I will marry if I choose.”

  “Well, so it is the same tune as ever. You women will have your heads. Or the king will have them.”

  Catherine bristled. “Wherefore are you so sour, Master Sillon? I’ve not seen you in many a day.”

  “And many a fine day it was, when I saw neither a Havens nor an Overton on my doorstep. But here you are, like the plague following the sweat. I must tell you, Lady Catherine What-do-ye-call-yourself, seeing you does not put me into a dancing mood.”

  Catherine turned to gaze down the open road. “I have not traveled here for a frolic,” she said. Sillon, behind her, gave no answer. Low storm clouds had rolled themselves out like a sheet of pewter over the sky. The old convent walls were dull grey in the low light, and Catherine could smell the tang of new woolens and water. She wondered if the river behind the buildings ran high from the spring rains. “Our old rooms are stuffed with goods for sale,” she said to no one. “God has likely shut his ears against us all. I hope the king follows His lead.”

  “What’s that? What’s that you say?” demanded Sillon. “Turn your face and speak to me directly, girl. You’re not so high and mighty these days that you needn’t look a man in the eyes.”

  Catherine turned. “I beg your pardon, sir. I was just thinking of what we have done to the village. And to the buildings where we once prayed. All of us women, together.”

  “I will bring the agreement on the morrow. It’s too late for a wedding tonight.” Sillon worked his way stiffly back down the front walk. The right foot scraped along, and Catherine could now see that his entire right side drooped, as though the flesh were dissolving. He muttered as he walked. “The scriptures say a man can pray anywhere he is, so I will leave you and your father to it. Sweet Christ on the water.” He wiped his mouth and slung the matter away. “Will I never see the end of this family?”

  “Not yet,” called Father John after him. He smiled sadly. “And are you ready for marriage then? With no more of your family present?”

  “Ann and Veronica will be my family,” said Catherine. “And Joseph and Reg.”

  The sky glowered darkly above them, and Father John crossed his arms. “How does my grandson, Daughter?”

  “Still among the pages at the prince’s court. He is against this marriage, Father.”

  John Bridle nodded. “Will you marry this man with that curse on you?” He pointed at Benjamin and they all followed the arc of his finger. But before Catherine could answer, he said, “Margaret Overton claims you are already married to her. You know this. She says she carries your child. She says it was done at the House. That you made a promise and consummated the union.”

  Benjamin said, “I deny it.”

  Catherine said, “It is nothing, Father.”

  The old man lifted an eyebrow. “The consummation?”

  “Father,” said Catherine, and she tried to smile. “The world’s ways have infected you.”

  “It’s a disease I’ve learned to live with,” he said. “And you say nay to this story?”

  The sun ripped a scarlet seam in the western clouds. Catherine hooded her eyes with her hand. “Benjamin tried to be a friend to her. Men act without foreseeing the consequences.”

  “As do women,” said her father.

  Catherine’s face stung. “And women bear false witness to maneuver themselves and their families into better positions. Their battles are often held on the field of gossip.”

  “As are men’s,” said her father.

  Catherine nodded again. “You have me cornered there, Father. Except that when men gossip, they call it the current news.”

  “You win the match,” said her father. He turned once again to Benjamin. “Will you marry my daughter with a free conscience?”

  “I will.”

  Catherine watched the sun tear its way into full view. “Will you marry us with a free conscience? We are sinners, you know.”

  “Can we do anything in this world without sin?”

  “No,” said Catherine. “We sin, every one of us.”

  “Without sin, we would have no need of Christ. And so our sin brings us around at the last.”

  “If we confess to it.” Catherine wiped her brow with a clout.

  “Have you aught to confess?”

  “I am one with the other sinners of the world. No more or less.”

  “Well said.”

  Catherine said, “Have you got those sheep up to a second shearing in a season?”

  John Bridle clapped her on the back and said, “That’s my daughter. We might try feeding them white bread and good ale this year. Can you imagine the fleeces springing from them then?”

  “I have always said that cruelty to God’s beasts shows a shallow heart,” said Catherine.

  “Will we stand here discussing the weather, as well?” asked Ann. “I thought I was riding to see two made into one and now it begins to look as though we will spend the night philosophizing and then start the haying directly.”

  “Have you heard it all, Father?” asked Catherine. “Of our time in the prison? Of this Martins, this king’s man? He travels with a flame of a man named Barts and his shadow Chandler. They know what we do, and they will report ill of me if he sees a payment in it.”

  John Bridle stroked his beard. “I hear the news now and then from London. But we are not in London. It is a long way away. We sometimes must make our own law. So, Daughter. Will you marry him?”

  Catherine laid one hand across her middle. The other went into her pocket, where the pennyroyal lay. It crumbled between her fingers. “I will do it.”

  Her father regarded the sky. “I’m one with Sillon. No marriages in the dark. Day for nuptials, night for making heirs. Come here, Granddaughter,” he said, swinging Veronica into his arms. He bowed to Benjamin. “We will meet you and your men at the church at dawn.”

  48

  Ann took Veronica to bed, leav
ing Catherine alone with John Bridle. They sat in the kitchen with a jug and a loaf between them. The priest slapped the knife against the bread board until Catherine set her hand on his wrist. “You will make me mad with that noise. What’s on your mind?”

  “Your sister.” John Bridle stared into Catherine’s eyes. “And you. Are you well? Too well?”

  “Can a person be too well?”

  “A woman can be doubly well. As well as two people. A well of wellness.”

  Catherine smiled and poured herself a cup of wine. “You may say it, Father.”

  “You grow fat in the waist. Your eyes are blue beneath. You look like your mother when she was—. Well, it doesn’t bear expression.”

  “When she was carrying a child? Can we not speak of my mother without shame? Even now, with her so many years underground?” She shoved back the stool and stood. “It falls on the woman always, does it not? The sin is the mother’s, and she must purge it from the child.” She sat again. “Yes. You know my face as you knew my mother’s, shining with guilt.”

  John Bridle rose to place his palm against Catherine’s cheek. “You shine, Daughter, but I will not call it sin. Your mother’s sin brought you into this world and I would not have it undone to save my soul. And if she sinned, I sinned as greatly as she did.” He retook his seat and hacked at the loaf. “I sometimes read on the Greek authors and wonder if they did not see further into our souls than we do. What if God returns us to this world to live through our own purgatories in new bodies? What if we purge out our sins by being born again? And who could be born, or born again, without our mothers wanting men?”

  “Father, you have turned pagan. And I thought we had rejected the purgatory as a superstition of the Roman church.”

  “Perhaps we have. We must say that we have. But we burn, do we not? For love. For children. For wealth. Perhaps we return in new bodies to burn the Hell out of us before we fly to heaven to stay. And I hope one day to meet your mother there, sin or no sin. And any sin you have contracted through her has been purified by your mind. And now, to bed, so that you are not a dull bride.” He left the butchered loaf where it lay, pushed himself to his feet and, handing her the cup, shooed Catherine from the room. “If you are certain. There may be shame yet to come.”