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  City of

  Ladies

  Books in The Cross and The Crown Series

  The Altarpiece

  City of Ladies

  Praise for

  The Cross and the Crown Series

  "The Altarpiece by Dr. Sarah Kennedy is an imaginative response to a gaping void in our otherwise abundant knowledge of Tudor England. The novel illustrates the enormous challenges faced by England’s nuns. Kennedy does an admirable job exposing unpromising choices and extreme difficulties faced by English Reformation era nuns. This book recommends itself first on the basis that it is quite simply a well told mystery story. It also makes Tudor England accessible to a large audience, and will hopefully even encourage scholarly interest in the subject." - The Sixteenth Century Journal

  "Sarah Kennedy's debut novel, The Altarpiece, is not one to be missed. The thoroughly absorbing story, as finely wrought as the missing artwork that sets the plot into motion, is rife with drama, intrigue, and thrilling history[y] . . . while detailing the utter destruction of the Catholic church in England during the Protestant Reformation. Though the mystery of the missing altarpiece makes this novel a page-turner, at the heart of the story lurks something much more vital: a smart young woman's desire to pursue a much greater life than the one offered to her.” Per Contra

  ". . . a great many things are happening in The Altarpiece: there is mystery, action, and even some romance. Kennedy has managed to create some interesting characters in the sisters of Mount Grace, particularly in Catherine, who is both intelligent and resourceful. She finds herself torn between her vows to the church and her desire for more in life. Although the mystery and search for the missing altarpiece provide the story with needed momentum, it is the more subtle tensions of the tale that are most interesting. It is intriguing how the nuns Christina, Veronica, Ann, and Catherine struggle and come to terms with the fact that their way of life is changing and may never be the same. Kennedy also deserves credit for approaching the period from the refreshing perspective of the devout." Historical Novel Society

  “The author described the era well, as well as the hopelessness that the nuns felt. I enjoyed Catherine’s character the most, because I felt her character showed the most growth….a short, enjoyable tale about faith, struggle and forbidden love during the Tudor period. I would recommend this to anyone who enjoy reading about that time period, or anyone who enjoys historical fiction.” The Book Musings

  “The Altarpiece is a powerful depiction of a horrible time in England’s history….Catherine is a very unique character. She is well-read and highly skilled in medicine of her time. While she lived in her convent, she was safe and protected. Without that protection, she may be considered a witch by people she had helped. I admired Catherine courage and her sense of right and wrong…. a very good piece of historical fiction.” Kinx’s Book Nook

  “The Altarpiece by Sarah Kennedy is the first in The Cross and The Crown Series and what a fantastic start!….Of course I knew of the priories and monasteries being taken by force by King Henry’s men but I’ve never read anything that focused on any one house so I found this very interesting. The author very vividly takes you back to this time period and you can practically feel the brutality and hopelessness of the situation being portrayed. For certain I will be anxiously awaiting the next novel in The Cross and The Crown Series called City of Ladies!” Peeking Between the Pages

  City of

  Ladies

  Book Two of The Cross and The Crown Series

  Sarah Kennedy

  KNOX ROBINSON

  PUBLISHING

  London & New York

  KNOX ROBINSON

  PUBLISHING

  34 New House

  67-68 Hatton Garden

  London, EC1N 8JY

  &

  244 5th Avenue, Suite 1861

  New York, New York 10001

  First published in Great Britain and the United States in 2014 by Knox Robinson Publishing

  Copyright © Sarah Kennedy 2014

  The right of Sarah Kennedy to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN HC 978-1-910282-09-0

  ISBN PB 978-1-910282-62-5

  Typeset in Trump Mediaeval

  Printed in the United States of America and the United Kingdom

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously.

  www.knoxrobinsonpublishing.com

  For Rod

  City of

  Ladies

  1

  Yorkshire, January 1539

  “Lady, there’s been a corpse found,” the soldier announced. He lifted one arm and in the raised hand dangled a veiled head.

  Catherine Havens Overton started awake and found herself alone, but for the infant sleeping beside her. She pushed off the covers and wiped the sweat from her face. She’d had the dream three times since her woman went missing, and it was always the same—she a nun again, walking through the convent, her old herb garden, bending to a sprig of sage, the man in armor seizing her habit. He was always somehow familiar and always holding out the head in one hand.

  Catherine shook out the sleeves of her nightdress and lifted the heavy cloak of her damp hair from her cheek. She rubbed her arms. It was only a ghost of the mind. She was safe. She was here, at Overton House, a married woman with a new daughter. The lady of the house. Destined for the court, or so her husband insisted. And now that the baby had come, he would press for it. Her missing woman would surely be found before they went. The watchmen would see to it.

  The fire had burned down to embers, and Catherine called for her new maid. No answer. Shifting the baby into the crook of her left elbow, she eased her legs from under the thick quilt. The night had been bitter, even for midwinter, and the window showed a low grey sky. More snow coming, no doubt. She struggled from the feather mattress and, thrusting her feet into the waiting slippers, felt the wad between her thighs loosen. She had left a bowl full of lady’s mantle nearby before she began her labors, and she packed the herbs against herself before she tightened the bands around her waist to stop the blood.

  The infant mewed, and Catherine uncovered the small head. “Hush now,” she said, studying her child. A shock of ginger fluff at the crown, fingernails like chips of shell. Her husband would have been happier with a boy. There were already enough females in the household, he would think. He might even say it, after a jug of wine, if his sister had gone yet again through her litany of traditions and the need for a male heir. She would of course let the word “legitimate” fall in Catherine’s hearing. Then she would smile. The tiny mouth gapped, and Catherine laid her daughter on the warm feather mattress. “Let me warm us up, child.”

  Catherine waddled across her wide chamber to the hearth, kneeling to stir the ashes with the iron poker. She had tended fires often enough without the assistance of a maid. A pile of yew sticks lay to hand, and she built a small hutch of them, then bent to blow gently across the spaces underneath. Soon the smoke licked upward, crackling into flame. Opening her shift, Catherine took the infant to the window, rubbing away the frost with the heel of her hand. The great grey stone Overton House sat on a North Yorkshire hill, overlooking the gardens, sweeps of gorse-spiked moor, and the fields their tenants used for sheep. Catherine’s was the only bedchamber in use by the family that looked directly down onto the back buildings, and she spotted her maid below, flattened against the back of the stable, her skirts hoisted to her waist. The girl was short-statured, and bosomy, and she was almost lost under
the figure of one of the younger groomsmen, his breeches dropped, who was thrusting against her. She looked cold, even in her pleasure, if she could be said to be enjoying herself. Catherine’s fingers went to the latch, but a trio of men came riding into the courtyard, calling, and the boy pulled himself free, buttoning up and running off with his cap in his hand. The maid was left panting and pushing her hair into place under her coif. Catherine could see the girl’s breath, a white wraith in the cold air. The mistress of Overton House should not be shouting from the upper windows anyway.

  Catherine’s husband William rode in behind the others, and he waved when his sister came walking from the stables toward the house, holding her velvet cloak around her shoulders. She did not linger to greet the hunters. The men dismounted and hung a large doe in the largest of the oaks by its hind legs, leaving two others slung across the backs of a couple of sullen ponies. Catherine fancied she could hear the squeaking of the leather thongs as the kill twirled slowly in the wind. The soft, pale belly was slit, and the crimson entrails spilled into a wooden bucket. The hounds circled, snouts in the air, and the groomsman peeled his gloves off to toss them a wad of intestine. He blew on his fingers, then thrust his bare hands into the gut of the steaming carcass. The others laughed, setting up a braying among the bloody-mouthed dogs. “Poor girl,” said Catherine, fogging the icy glass.

  The heavy door of the bedchamber creaked, and Ann Smith came in, wiping her hands on a coarse cloth. They had been sisters together in the convent, and now they looked after the children together. “What are you doing out of the bed?” Ann said.

  “The room was cold,” Catherine said.

  “Where’s that new maid? That Eleanor. I told her to stay with you.”

  Catherine pointed with her head at the window. “She had business outdoors.”

  “Christ on a stick,” muttered Ann, glancing out. “Do you mean she’s got her head turned by one of the young men? You should have left that girl in the country.”

  “She’s not a bad one. Just young. Tell me, Ann. How does my son?”

  The other woman yanked the woolen curtain at the window closed. The brass rings clanged. “He will not be coaxed from his room. You cried out fierce at the last. Now, get back under those sheets, or I will carry you there myself. I have told him he could come now.”

  “He should be acquainted with his sister. Has William said aught about a name?” The women were both tall, and Catherine put her finger on the thin scar across her friend’s throat. It blazed in the cold against Ann’s white skin. “That has healed nicely.”

  Ann traced the raised line. “Thanks to you, I can still speak my will. But much good it does me. Now, back to bed with you. We will choose a name ourselves.”

  Catherine smiled. “Very well.” She handed over the infant and slid under the covers. The linen was icy now, and she pulled the blankets to her chin. “You may get in with me. The room is frozen as Satan’s nose.”

  “I haven’t washed my feet,” said Ann. She rocked the baby. “She’s as beautiful as you are. And her eyes will be as green as yours inside a year, mark me.” Ann studied the infant’s red face and gently rubbed her nose against the baby’s. “She will be tall and fair of face. She will be springtime for your old age.” The baby’s mouth bubbled milk, and Ann laughed.

  “The hair is all Overton,” said Catherine, leaning over to dab her daughter’s lips. “We may thank God for it.”

  “I don’t give a fig whether there is a drop of Overton blood in her,” said Ann. “She can be all Catherine, like her brother, and I will love her the more.”

  “Shh,” said Catherine. Her eyes were on the open door.

  “He is nowhere within hearing,” said Ann. “He just rode in. Just about now he is out kissing his hounds’ snouts and cannot be bothered to see his children.”

  “It’s hard for him. Especially in this house.”

  “Not so hard to make her, was it?” Ann winked at Catherine. “He was not so keen for his dogs that day, was he?”

  “Stop your mouth, Ann Smith,” said Catherine, but she was smiling for the moment. Only for a moment. “How do the Sisters? Is there any word of our Joan?”

  “They say that she was down in the village to teach the day she disappeared. The others are worried, every one. With you down, everyone fears she will not be sought. Everyone except Margaret, as you might expect.”

  Her sister-in-law’s room was on the other side of the hall and Catherine listened for footsteps before she spoke. “Margaret won’t be able to speak against me now. This girl has Overton stamped on her head. Tell the other women to search. Tell them to go in pairs.”

  “They fear the watchmen.”

  “Tell them to wear Overton colors.” Catherine lay back on the pillows. “I have had the dream again.”

  “Does the man still hold a head?”

  “Yes, every time. It is like a visitation from Hell. I can’t speak of it to William.”

  Ann leaned over and stroked the baby’s hair. The child opened her mouth and clamped down on the air. “Perhaps its message is meant only for you.”

  Catherine stroked the infant’s cheek with one finger. “I wonder what he will want to call her.”

  “I will name her myself if her father will not,” said Ann. “I say she will be little Veronica. What think you of it?”

  “It pleases me. But I favor Mary. Mary Veronica?” Catherine winced and turned onto her side. “I’m sore.”

  “You labored the better part of the night. I thought you would shatter the stones of the house with your shrieking.”

  Catherine laughed out loud. But then her mind sobered. “William wanted a boy. And a girl is not safe.”

  “She’s safe if she’s an Overton. A confirmed Overton. And your William has a son. One he should love better. Ah, here’s our shining star.”

  A black-haired boy toddled into the room, and when he saw his mother, he inserted a thumb into his mouth, waiting.

  “Come here and meet your sister, Robbie,” said Catherine. She opened her arms and the child ran on sturdy legs, scrabbling up the side of the tall bed.

  “Over on this side, you monkey,” said Ann. “Your mother must be handled gently just now.”

  The child leapt over Catherine’s legs and scrutinized the newborn. “Scorch,” he said, pushing a chubby thumb against the little cheek. “Have you cooked her in the hearth, Mother?”

  “She is red because she has just seen the light and her skin is still fine,” said Catherine. “No fire has touched her.”

  The boy solemnly separated the tiny toes and rubbed each nail. He pulled the blanket away and sat back with a gasp at the stub of cord. “Like a puppy.”

  Ann roared. “She is no puppy. She is your sister. And that? That is her mortal mark. You had one too.” She jabbed the boy in the belly. “Look at where your mother has left her stamp upon you. She held you as tight as she held your sister.”

  “It is an ugly thing,” pronounced the boy. “But I will love it as Aunt Ann instructs me I must.”

  Catherine and Ann laughed and the boy blushed, ducking his head under his mother’s arm.

  “What is the jest?” William Overton came in, red-faced from the wind, with his tall manservant behind him. The men brought the scent of snow and fir trees and feathers into the room. William still wore his hunting coat and boots, and Catherine could smell the dog on him, too. His sister Margaret peeked in behind him. She scanned the room, saw Ann Smith, and backed out again.

  “Will, come greet your daughter.”

  Ann placed the sleeping infant into Catherine’s arms, took up the boy, and slid around the man. She touched Reg Goodall, the manservant, on the arm as she left the room and he smiled after her.

  William Overton settled against the bedside and peered into the blanket. “She seems a hale girl.” He lifted a red curl. “An Overtop, I see, like my father.” William’s hair was brown but it flamed a little when sunlight touched it. He grinned, but when Catherine
offered the bundle, he recoiled. “I’m filthy as a pig farmer.” He picked a feather from his coat and let it drift to the rushes on the floor.

  Catherine’s husband had taken up falconing at the same time he had begun to seek a place for her at court. She asked, “Have you had the birds out?”

  William nodded. “Ruby. The peregrine. She’s the beauty of them all.” He spoke to his new daughter. “She’s not as red-headed as you, though.”

  Catherine shifted the child so that her father could see better. “Will we call her after your mother?”

  “Mary? A Papist name? The king has given us his permission but we mustn’t move him to regret it.”

  “I would have her Mary. It seems right. Your boy after your father, your girl after your mother.”

  “My boy.” William bent and flicked a scrap of dirt from his boot.

  “They should be named after your parents.”

  “Let me hold this new Mary, then. Shall she have another name?” He turned and saw the open door. “Margaret? Where did she go?”

  Catherine said, “I would like Veronica.”

  “That surprises me. Do you think it wise to recall the convent so intentionally?”

  “The woman was like a mother to me. And no one remembers her save Ann and me. Father has not even marked her grave.”

  “She was good to you. Better than your mother.”

  “And we could call the child Veronica rather than Mary if it seems better to you.”

  “That will do. Mary Veronica it will be.” William took the girl in his free arm now, and she squirmed at his hold and opened her eyes. Her mouth puckered and she blatted a little wind. “A female, no doubt. She is telling me what she thinks already.”