The King's Sisters

by Sarah Kennedy

  “I am sure of almost nothing these days. But I trust Benjamin’s word. And I will do what can be done for this child.”

  Upstairs, she undressed herself in the firelight, flinging her clothes over a bench without ceremony, and sat on the floor like a maid and stared into the flames as though they would send her a sign of what the next morning would bring. The morning beyond that. The rain swished against the window, but the wind said nothing she could understand.

  Catherine woke in the grey dawn with her head on the floor. The fire, uncovered all night, had died into ash, and her hair was tangled. She had been dreaming of ravens, dozens of them. They had come in through the window and perched on the chairs and bedposts, the hearth and the chests. One had landed before Catherine and stood, bobbing its black head at her. It had turned first one gold eye on her, then the other. Its great beak clopped three times, then it said “Margaret.” At that they all began to beat their wings, screeching “Margaret Margaret Margaret” and Catherine had opened her eyes to the silent room. Then a wren resumed its morning song on the windowsill, singing a melody that sounded like secretive secretive secretive.

  Catherine pushed herself to her feet and rubbed her stiff shins. Her back hurt, and she’d let the cup roll away, dribbling wine as it went. She couldn’t rub the stain from the stones, and the maid would know she had spilled her drink. Let her see. It was no crime to drink wine in her father’s house.

  Her father’s house. Catherine went to the door and called for a chambermaid to bring her fresh water, and while she waited she shook out her clothing. Footsteps hurried up and down the hall, and soon Ann’s familiar thump hit the door.

  “Are you awake?” Ann came in with Veronica, who hopped onto the bed and squirreled under the covers with her poppet. Ann ran her hand over the top cover. “You haven’t slept here.”

  “I fell asleep on the floor. I was here. Alone. I think my body was crying out for rest.”

  One side of Ann’s mouth smiled. “No matter to me where you lie or who is lying with you.”

  “Why do you sleep on the dirty floor, Mother?” asked Veronica. She popped up and ran to the window, throwing it open. The wren fled, and Veronica waved her Cleopatra at it as it went. “Go, bird!”

  Catherine laid her hand on her daughter’s hair. “I lost the time and was awake before I knew I was asleep. God gave me no time to find my pillow.”

  Ann rubbed her arms against the early breeze. “It’s your wedding day.”

  The girl came in with the water, and Catherine stripped to bathe. The water was warm enough to soften her tight muscles, and Catherine held the wet clout on the back of her neck. She bent her head one way, then the other. “I have the headache this morning. It runs clear down my back. I am becoming Jane Dudley. I wonder if we have any willow bark.” She clutched her head in both hands and stretched downward. The pain slid away and she finished washing, pulled on the skirt and bodice. Ann tied her up in the back and helped her on with the sleeves. Twisting her hair into a simple knot, Catherine fixed her coif and called it good.

  John Bridle’s kitchen was spotless, and his three girls, all Bridgettine novices from Syon House once, were fresh and clean, their hair tied back and their aprons white. One of them was squatting on a stool, picking pin feathers from a chicken and a second was kneading bread on the corner table. A pile of cabbages lay in a basket on the floor beside a bucket of eggs, and the third maid was pulling the dead leaves from them. When they saw Catherine, the girls curtsied before returning to their tasks. “Will you eat?” asked the oldest. She indicated the big plank table that was pushed up to the window. It looked out over the back, toward the stables.

  “Your kitchen is pristine as a palace,” said Ann, and the girl’s face flamed with pleasure as she spread a slice of bread with strawberry jam and pushed it on a plate toward Veronica.

  “Here you are, small mistress. Eat that all up.”

  Catherine took a seat with the widest view. The side garden was still winter-dull, with layers of straw over last year’s rows. The gravel looked raked and washed. She stood and stepped out into the blue morning. The scent of the earth made her smile, and she squatted to turn the young, translucent leaves of the lettuces in the raised salad bed, then picked one and held it up to the sun. It looked almost gold, she thought, like a shard of stained glass. She tucked the straw up around the necks of the tender plants and moved on.

  “Do you mean to marry today or not?” John Bridle said. Catherine startled, and he took her arm. “Your man will be waiting for you.”

  “Sillon tells truth about the law. We do not make it.”

  Father John put his arm through Catherine’s. “But I do make the marriages in Mount Grace. Come then. You don’t want to go with dirt under your fingernails.”

  They walked through to find Ann fixing Veronica’s coif. “Will we go to find you a father, child?” asked Catherine.

  “Where do we find the fathers?” the girl replied, and the priest lifted her.

  “We find them at the church door,” he said, and led them out.

  The village was closed up against the cold, and Benjamin emerged from the inn with Reg and Joseph. John Bridle set Veronica down in the old stone porch of the church and waited until Benjamin stood next to Catherine and took up the fingers of her right hand.

  The priest said, “Will you love each other as the scriptures require, and forebear the quarrels and the daily betrayals that mark the lives of husbands and wives? Will you care for each other when your hair grows grey and your eyes are too gummed for lust? Will you live together in peace and depart contentedly when you must be in different places? And not harp at one another with the foul notes of jealousy or gamble each other’s money away?”

  “This sounds like no vow I have ever taken,” remarked Benjamin. He was looking at Catherine.

  She smiled. “My father is no ordinary priest.”

  “And we are no ordinary folk, are we?”

  “No, Husband.”

  Ann pushed them closer together. “Will you or won’t you? The questions still hang in the air unanswered and my toes are numb with cold.”

  “I will,” said Benjamin.

  “I will, said Catherine.

  “And so it is accomplished,” said the priest. “I will record it in the parish record and it is done, come what will.” Benjamin bent to put his lips gently on Catherine’s, and the priest said, “Time enough for that. I have not et this morning, and I will blow away with the first wind if I don’t get some bread in me.” He added, “You’re man and wife, by the grace of God, and I urge you to have some grace in your lives. Come, Ann Smith, lead me and my granddaughter to my table.” He stepped onto the path and waved. Kit Sillon came laboring toward them. “Go to my house, man,” the priest called. “There’s a cup for you.”

  “You are my father now?” asked Veronica, wedging herself between the couple and staring up at Benjamin. “We could have found you any old where.”

  John Bridle’s front door stood open, and they all retired to the kitchen, where the chambermaid served ale and bread and cheese with stewed apples and fresh cream. But Catherine had no appetite, and she went to the back window and watched the garden slowly waking. She pushed the pane open, and leaned out. She could hear the distant drone of spinning wheels. A lark sang a note from the top of a tall fir, and dozen bright birds burst from the boughs and hurtled themselves across the sky.

  “Mount Grace lies in layers,” she said. “This one lies over top of the village of my memories. Those last days, when the king’s men destroyed us. There was blood in the pavers, thick as dark honey. I would wager it can still be seen, if you move the bales of wool. I recall sitting in this room as a girl, and you teaching me my letters. I sat at that very table and you would guide my right hand with your own.” She glanced over her shoulder at her father. “It was to prevent my using the left hand, wasn’t it
? Mother Christina would beat me if I picked up even a stone with my left.” She turned. The priest and the judge sat at the table, watching her. Benjamin leaned in the doorway. Ann and the maids had disappeared.

  “I was meant to go to court. You know that, Father. Then I ruined my chance. Then I decided I was better off to stay. Then I wanted to go, and go I did. And now I both want to go and to stay. I am here and not here every minute of my life.” She leaned back on the window and laughed. “I am both woman and child all of the time. How can you bear my company?”

  Benjamin silently withdrew, and Catherine heard his steps on the narrow staircase.

  “How can I bear to be without it?” her father said.

  “William loved me. And we know how that story ended.”

  “William is in his tomb. Don’t shackle yourself to a ghost. You didn’t cause his death, nor did you cause his grief during life.”

  Catherine sat across from the two old men and clasped her hands.

  “I know that. Nor did I make myself the child of a priest and a prioress, but these events live in our blood, do they not?”

  “How thin is your blood, that it can only hold a few years’ events?”

  She rubbed her forehead, as though the motion might put her thoughts into place. The morning birds argued outside the window, and she put her hands over her ears and closed her eyes.

  “You cannot disappear that way,” her father said.

  “Like water in summer.” Catherine opened her eyes. “The river behind the convent used to fill a pool near the large willows. It was a shallow place, and old Sister Veronica used to take me there in the warm weather to cool my feet. But when the weather was hot, the water would dissolve away and leave nothing but old roots and nests of dead leaves. I would cry.” Catherine laughed softly at herself. “And then she would walk me out under the sky and promise me that God would send the water down again when He had made use of it. I used to stare up at the sun, wondering what God’s feet looked like.” She tried to laugh again, but her throat closed against it. “Father, I have wronged my sister. And the king’s sister.”

  The front door opened and closed, but they did not move. Father John said, “That Margaret is a blight and a plague, God forgive me for saying it. If she is with child, it had to be got by an angel of God. No man but a saint could do it.”

  “You are my father, and you take my part. But, mark me, I have been a player in whatever evil she has done.”

  Ann came into the kitchen. “The village is out.”

  “They expect some celebration,” said the judge.

  The priest called for his girl. “Open the door so that we may call our neighbors in. Sillon, wipe that devil’s glare from your face or you will frighten the children. Put on your bridal smile, Daughter, and wipe your mind clean. Go greet your well-wishers.”

  Someone called a hallo, and the old judge scooted out of the kitchen with Ann. Catherine and John Bridle waited until they heard Simon, the old innkeeper, call out “Where is this groom?” then gathered some plates of food from the pantry and walked into view.

  “Boy!” called Sillon, and a child squeezed through the people gathered in John Bridle’s front garden and stepped inside. “Bring me that chestnut mare. Put the Spanish saddle on her.”

  The kitchen was full of women now, and the men massed in the sitting room. Sillon squinted through the front shutter. Benjamin came down and stood with Catherine by the hearth. She put on her modesty, ducking her head as the men wished her husband well in getting a son, but she was watching the embers extinguish themselves under their ashes.

  “And are you asleep, Catherine Havens?”

  She looked up into the freckled face of her old friend Elizabeth Aden. She was holding out a crock and Catherine could smell the honey.

  “Look at you,” said Elizabeth, pressing the jar into her hand. She stepped aside to reveal a young girl, with bright brown hair escaping her coif. “Say hallo to the woman who brought you into the world,” Elizabeth said, and the girl curtsied.

  “She’s a beauty,” said Catherine, but the sight of her brought tears to the backs of her eyes and she put her face onto her old friend’s shoulder to hide them. “You recall that summer,” she whispered.

  “Indeed I do.” Elizabeth pushed Catherine to arms’ length. “And here you are, yet again. And my bees are as fat as the sheep of the fields. Where is Ann Smith?”

  “Here! Elizabeth! Have you still got the bees?” Ann was hailing her from the stairs, and Elizabeth kissed Catherine on the cheek and waved. “Be well, Catherine.”

  Catherine watched them embrace, Elizabeth lifting Ann’s chin to examine the old cicatrice across her throat. Benjamin took Catherine’s hand, but when she met his eyes, he said nothing.

  The food was gone within the hour and the morning wound into afternoon, then evening. More ale was brought and dancing commenced in the yard when three men took up pipes and began to play. Catherine had almost fallen asleep on her feet when the priest said, “Will these young folks not be allowed to go to their bed?”

  “I’m not so young,” Benjamin called, and the men hooted.

  “Young enough,” someone yelled.

  “Out, now,” said the priest, shoving at the nearest man. It took him and Joseph and Ann and Reg together to empty the house and grounds, Catherine handing out soft pairs of leather gloves her father had provided. Finally she sat and pulled off her shoe to rub her sole.

  “Upstairs,” said the priest.

  “Not yet.” Sillon was at the door. “I thought that rabble would never clear themselves out. Come on with me before you take yourselves up.” He glared and went out.

  Catherine slipped the shoe back on and followed Benjamin outside. Sillon stood there, holding the halter of a young, golden mare. On her back was a burnished leather saddle, stamped with blossoms and leaves and studded with brass. He handed Catherine a paper. “Here’s your agreement. And here is your wedding gift. Do not overfeed her. She has the appetite of a queen’s ride and will founder too easily.” He held out the leather strap and frowned.

  Catherine wound the halter around her hand and pulled the mare forward. The animal pushed her silky muzzle into Catherine’s hand and snuffed. She smelt sweet and green. “She is fit for a queen. I have no words to thank you.”

  “Ah, women have too many words anyway,” said the old judge. The bushes of his eyebrows rose and fell. “Treat her well, Catherine Havens Overton Davies. You will sit her as she should be sat.” He moved forward and crooked his arm enough to pat Catherine on the shoulder. “Well, then, you be a good girl.” He rubbed at his eyes and shuffled off, muttering to himself.

  The stable boy took the horse, and Reg retreated to the kitchen with Ann. Catherine heard them playing with Veronica. Joseph said his good-night and said he would sleep at the inn. John Bridle said, “I will have another glass before I retire.” He shook Benjamin’s hand and embraced his daughter. Then he was gone.

  “And that leaves only two,” said Benjamin. “Wife, you must guide me to my bedchamber.”

  “And so I will,” said Catherine. She took him by the hand and led him up the stairs.

  They’d been abed before, but in her father’s house, Catherine put out the light before she allowed Benjamin to untie her coif, then her sleeves, then her skirt. He knelt to slip it down and he laid it aside on the floor. Then he ran his arms up her legs until he had her by the hips. He lifted her and laid her on the bed. She watched him in in the dusky light as he undressed and crept in beside her.

  “May I touch you without fear?” he asked.

  Catherine laughed quietly. “What have you ever feared?”

  He raised himself on one elbow. “Men of law. The plague. Hurting you.” He bent over her and kissed her mouth.

  “Do not lie to me,” she said.

  “Never. I vow it. I will only lie on you.�
�� He rubbed his face down her breasts and her body warmed to him. His arm came around her waist, setting her higher on the sheets. “Here I am.”

  “And I,” whispered Catherine. “I am here for you. And I will love you.” Her muscles went hot and she pulled him over her.

  49

  The moon was up, shining a vindicating light upon the house. Catherine slid from the bed and searched the shadows in her father’s garden. Now she would be victorious and happy. Should be happy. But the king would have to be told. And her son. And Lady Anne. A storm festered in the far west, but for now the sky was bright. The high road was a silver ribbon, and a lone badger trotted up the grassy verge. An owl swooped across its path, and Catherine crossed herself. She turned, but Benjamin was sleeping on his stomach, one arm out where she had lain. She had better join him again, she thought, and slid back into her spot, barely moving her husband as she adjusted herself for rest.

  The eastern sky was blushing with the dawn when Catherine opened her eyes again. Ann was calling from downstairs and soon there was pounding on the door.

  “Come in,” said Benjamin. He covered Catherine with the blanket and scratched his jaw.

  Ann peeked around the door. “I suppose you will break your fasts in your bed like a duke and duchess.”

  “I eat wherever I choose,” said Benjamin. “Bring me some pickled oranges, Sister, and the hind foot of an elephant, stewed in almonds.”

  “I will pickle you, man, for sure,” Ann said, “and what’s more I will bring you your man’s hind foot, kicking your breeches onto you. There is bread on the table downstairs, if you can rouse yourselves.” The door closed and Veronica’s voice shrilled, laughing. Ann was probably carrying her over one shoulder.

  “So begins married life,” said Benjamin. He tossed off the covers, smacked Catherine with a kiss, and jumped up. “Get dressed, Wife, and let’s go claim our thrones. No man will dare come between us now. Nor woman neither.”