Mistress of Mourning (30 page)

“I don’t want to hear such nonsense. If you want to argue, save it.”

He kept looking out the door instead of so much as glancing at me, which made me even angrier. “It’s true, isn’t it?” I demanded. “Well, I agree with you that our duty to Her Majesty is more important than some mock betrothal.”

Scowling, he glanced at me, then away again. “I swear, woman, you drive me mad. With frustration, with desire. Now keep quiet so we can hear more than the rain on the roof, lest someone tries to sneak up on us.”

Whispering now, I plunged on anyway. He had my ire up, and I was panicked at the way events were unfolding. Firenze and Sim murdered, and now this. I easily could have been the third death. “Nick, we’ve had two dreadful turns of events—two terrible deaths here in Wales. I understand that, but must you attack me?”

He turned and seized me by both my upper arms. “Attack you? I’m trying to keep you safe. And that motto on the cave wall—the way your pursuer disappeared without a trace when Surrey’s men searched—the poisoning of the prince—now this…Varina, what if Lord Lovell’s back, within my reach, planning harm, and I can’t find him, let alone stop him?”

It shook me even more to realize that Nick, my strong,
stalwart Nick, was afraid. I nodded in understanding and lifted my hands to grip his wrists, even as he held me. It was as if we propped each other up in the midst of a sweeping storm, and I knew, at the very least, we were a solace to each other.

While Nick and I stood like silent statues but for when he shouted to keep the flesh-eating birds at bay, the sheriff rode in pell-mell with Rhys. Nick and the sheriff, a burly man with a black beard named Cargon Dylan, lowered old Fey to the ground. I went outside despite what Nick had said.

“I ne’er thought to see the end of her,” Sheriff Dylan said with a shake of his head and a loud sniff. Both men—Rhys too—kept looking around the clearing and into the trees. “I swear but it’d be like her to leap up again and dart off into the forest.” He snatched off his cap, and, despite the weeping of the skies, Nick and Rhys did too. Not to be outdone, I threw back my hood. The rain felt good, washing me despite the chill of it.

“I’ll send for the crowner straightaway and look into who could have wanted to silence or hurt Fey,” the sheriff promised. “With the rain making the road nigh on impassable in places, the procession will be leaving on the morrow, so’s not to be late for the funeral at Worcester.”

Nick’s head snapped up. “Who says?” he demanded.

“Got word from the castle, sent from the earl. The whole village been told to turn out to line the road just after dawn. I’m to see to it, so looking into old Fey’s murder will have to wait. Hope that don’t give the one who did this time to flee.”

Nick’s and my gazes met over the man’s shoulder. I could
just hear Nick thinking,
The one who did this wants to do more than flee.

But more startling than the sheriff’s announcement was the fact that, just before he covered Fey’s face with one of her own herb bags, I was certain I saw not sopped silver hair but gold, a wrinkled face gone smooth, and a soft white throat instead of a creased one gone purple from a hangman’s rope.

When we returned to the castle, all was in chaos. Despite the rain, the Welsh and some English visitors still streamed over the drawbridge and into the castle to file past the casket in the chapel. People were packing; servants were running hither and yon. Despite the downpour, goods were being assembled in the courtyard. Nick saw me to my room, then, much dismayed that he had not been present when the earl ordered the departure moved up, went off to be certain everyone knew the order of the procession.

In my chamber I found Morgan folding my garments and putting them into saddle packs. Once again I ignored the food and ale waiting for me on a tray and went downstairs to find some sustenance from the common kitchen, though I could barely force food down. Fey’s face—her fate—tormented me. Again I had mentioned the illusion of her youth to Nick.

I went into the small chamber off the chapel where we had wrapped the prince’s body, to be certain that the tall, black funeral tapers and the extra waxen cloths were packed, wrapped in that same rain-repellent cloth. All was well, just as I had ordered and checked twice before. I stayed until the
goods were carried off to be divided between saddle packs and a cart. Despite the suddenness of our looming departure and the wretched conditions outside, I was happy we were heading toward home.

I felt exhausted, but I was so tightly strung I knew I’d never sleep. Yet I needed my rest. Sadly, our leaving a few days early meant that the princess would be left here alone until she was well enough to travel to London. Was she yet too weak to bid farewell to her husband either publicly or privily? I prayed she had a strong contingent of guards left to protect her.

I thanked Morgan for her help, gave her several groats, with which she seemed pleased, and dismissed her early. I lay down in my riding gown so that I could be ready quickly when the cry came in the corridors for the funeral participants to awake. I would take my saddle packs downstairs and find Nick, for he’d said he might be up all night. I would also be certain I had the samples of meadow saffron from Percival Garnock and the one I had taken from Fey’s basket.…

Fey, swinging in the tree with the vultures after her, after us all…in the darkness of my room where I was fleeing a man chasing me…chasing me through the bog and shooting arrows at me so I couldn’t breathe…and poor Sim had his throat pierced, and that big beast had its heart cut out of him, just like the prince…

Now the darkness surrounding me was that of the crypt under the cathedral. I heard, echoing in my head, the voice of that man who wanted to kill me, who had killed
Signor
Firenze. He wanted to murder me among the tombs and monuments to the dead. His cape flapping, he pursued me
through the cemetery where my son lay buried, not the queen’s son.…

I sat straight up in bed with a gasp. Trying to run, I had churned my sheets to waves. A dream, a nightmare, that was all! But…but did I at least now know who the man was who had chased me through the crypt that day? His voice…

I had to tell Nick! I scrambled barefoot across the cold stone floor to fumble with my door lock. I’d left a candle burning, but it had gutted out. Darkness. I had dreamed about the dark, about being closed in by death. If Nick was in his room—however late was it?—I had to tell him what I’d just recalled.

I swung open the door and took a step into the hall, only to trip over a body in the dimly lit corridor.

I fell to my knees with a gasp. Nick! It was Nick!

Queen Elizabeth of York

“My dear Elizabeth, of course people, servants and nobles alike, are going to talk,” the king said, trying to calm me when I explained what Sibil had told me. “Now that I’ve made the move to have James Tyrell examined, if he’s found guilty or is even implicated in your brothers’ demise, I’ll have it shouted to the rooftops. Though I was wary of so much as broaching that subject again, I’ve changed my mind. Justice must be served, and your continued torment over the royal lads’ disappearance must be eased. I believe Tyrell will tell my inquisitors all under duress.”

“Duress. You are going to have him tortured to make him talk?”

“I’ll have him threatened with it first, then order its use if I must. Considering what you’ve been urging me for weeks, I warrant that can hardly displease you.”

It was the first night we had lain abed together since we had heard of Arthur’s death, but neither of us was in the mood for anything but sharing what mutual strength we could muster. It had helped us to speak of our lost son and of our new-fledged hopes for our heir, Henry. The boy would not be invested as Prince of Wales until we had Catherine back from Ludlow and were certain she was not with child, for any issue of Arthur’s would keep Henry second in line for the throne. But I could not keep from asking about Tyrell, despite the king’s telling me earlier to leave it all to him.

I swallowed hard and said, “Torture displeases me, Henry, but I see its necessity. Tyrell defied you by refusing to come out of his stronghold, and he must be made to confess whether he harmed my brothers.”

Henry’s hand gripped mine under the covers, like talons rather than fingers, for he had suddenly lost weight. “You must let go of your guilt for your brothers’ loss, this…this witch hunt for who might have been involved, or it will make you bitter and ill, Elizabeth. Huge, sweeping events pay no heed to people’s hearts, not even if you are the most powerful people in the kingdom.”

“Or even, I suppose, if you are the lowest stable boy or kitchen turnspit and lose the ones you love.”

“Elizabeth the Good, they call you for your tender heart. Sleep well, my love, for we have difficult duties ahead to preserve Crown and kingdom. There—did that sound as if I were addressing my privy council or the entire Parliament?”

“It sounded like wisdom to my head and heart. At least we have the children and each other. At least, whatever else befalls, we have that.”

But as I lay stock-still so as not to disturb Henry, who soon fell into labored breathing, fear gnawed at me again. That I might never know what had happened to my dear brothers, for I must blame someone besides myself. That since I had lost three children now, I might lose young Henry and his sisters too. That someone still lurked in the darkness who wished us ill, but who waited to strike again.

Mistress Varina Westcott

Thank the Lord, Nick sat up from a pallet he’d evidently placed in the hall. He half caught me as I fell over him. He’d been sleeping here! I’d seen far too many dead bodies of late.

“What is it?” he demanded. “I’ve been here for hours.”

He was guarding my door! Sleeping on the hard, cold floor to protect me. How could I have mistrusted him, been angry with him? I wrapped my arms around his neck like a child affrighted by demons.

“I had a nightmare—but I think I know who chased me!” I blurted as he stood with me yet clinging to him and quickly shuffled me inside my room, coming close behind.

“A nightmare of being in the bog?” he asked.

“And in the crypt at home. I don’t know whether what he told me was true, but I remember what he said.”

“What who said? Slow down and tell me all.”

“It was in the cemetery where my family is buried, and he was there—a strange man talked to me. But now I think
he must have followed me on purpose. He may have been the same as the man with the cape on the castle parapet, maybe the man in the crypt and the bog, but why? What am I to him?”

“Varina, you’ve simply had a nightmare. You’re not making sense. Just because the man on the parapet and in the bog wore a cape—”

“No, it’s more than that. Yes, I had a dream, but I’m awake now.”

Nick dragged his thin straw pallet into the room, then closed and bolted the door behind us. He sat in one chair, but when I moved toward the other, he pulled me into his lap.

“Listen to me for a minute,” he said. “We must think logically, not emotionally now—both of us. As for the man in the bog, I’ve learned the fletching on the arrow was what they call antique, used by King Richard’s Yorkist loyalists hereabouts years ago, and that would have included Francis Lovell.”

“Now who is being emotional, speaking mayhap only from his deepest fears?”

“All right, I admit I’m obsessed with finding the whoreson traitor. Say on about your dream—your nightmare.”

“Perhaps when I was at rest my mind spoke logical truth to me. I remembered—I dreamed of an encounter, mayhap not by chance, in the graveyard of St. Mary Abchurch, not far from my house and shop.” I was speaking quietly, but my right temple lay against his shoulder, so he could hear me well. I felt secure in his arms, which made the telling easier. I had not felt real fear in that graveyard encounter, but my
unconscious, dreaming mind must have recognized the danger or the evil that reeked from that man.

“It was in mid-November, the day I took candles to St. Paul’s for the service celebrating Catherine’s safe arrival from Spain. I stopped by to visit my son’s grave on the way, and a man came in through the cemetery gate, close behind me. I did not recognize him or think much of that at first. He nodded to me, then went off a ways. I recall his hooded black cape flapped in the breeze and snagged on his sword.”

“It’s not just the cape and sword that are similar, setting you off on this track?” Nick asked again. “Did he have a quiver of arrows on him, besides a sword?”

“No, but while I was at Edmund’s grave, he approached me, saying I seemed familiar with the area and that he was looking for his cousin buried there, by the name of Stoker.”

“Stoker?” Nick repeated as his arms tightened around me. “Go on.”

“He introduced himself as Alan Bainton from near Colchester. And I’m thinking now that the princess said that the peddler told her and the prince he was from Colchester.”

“What did he look like?” Nick demanded, his voice suddenly urgent.

“His hood was pulled up against the wind, but I saw he had a gray-and-white speckled beard, a strong nose—almost hooked at the bridge of it. Silvery hair, I think, though he kept his hood pulled up. It was blustery that day, so I gave it not a thought. I could not guess his age, though the hue of his hair and beard says something. But his voice—unusual, a bit raspy, just like the man in the crypt. It was nearly a whisper, but it commanded attention. I saw no horse but he
wore fine spurs, and his boots were shiny. He said he had an ill cousin he would need to bury soon. Nick, you’re hurting me, squeezing so hard. Nick!”

“Did he say aught else?” he asked, loosing his hold on me slightly. I sat up straight on his lap as another terrifying thought assailed me.

“No, but…if you’re thinking it could have been Lord Lovell, have you ever heard his voice? Is it raspy?”

“I’ve never heard it, but I have been told such. That though he spoke that way, his orders were always obeyed, a sort of inbred leadership, even in the din of battle. A relentless man for his cause—and, of course, one who seems to come and go at will. Anything else you can recall?”