Mistress of Mourning (9 page)

Today was Thursday, November the eleventh, and the royal wedding would be on the fourteenth. This was also the first day in weeks, but for the Sabbaths, that I had not spent hours at the palace, working on the effigies for the queen. I was grateful for the break, but truth be told, I missed Nick.

“Will you help us wrap him, then?” Master Barker asked as I stepped closer.

I was not squeamish around a dead body, for I had seen many in various stages of preparation for the grave, but I did not wish to spend much time at this task today. I was to meet Christopher and several other chandlers at St. Paul’s to help oversee the positioning of the two hundred and twenty tall tapers for Princess Catherine’s thanksgiving service. If we were to have sunshine then, the light would be suitable inside the vast stone cathedral, but if it were cloudy like today, we must have banks and boards of candles, let alone the ones on the altar.

I carefully unrolled the three ells of Holland cloth that
we had soaked in wax at the chandlery. It clung to the corpse, kept any fluids in, and, at least people liked to think, it kept the mold and cold of the grave out. It took real skill to imbue the wheat-hued flax with just enough wax at the right temperature, to stretch it straight until it dried, and then to store it so it would not crack.

As they rolled and lifted the body, I wrapped and tucked the cloth around it, fitting it snugly, keeping the arms to the torso and the legs together, tending carefully to the corpse’s head. Some families wanted the faces kept unwrapped until the coffin was closed, but farewells were best said before embalming.

I was grateful the barber-surgeons had done their work before I came today, for they were not only healers of the ailing through bleedings and cuttings. Unless it was plague times when many died, or even during the sweat disease such as had carried off my family, each body buried in the city must be eviscerated and the soft organs of the abdomen and chest removed. Sometimes the organs were buried with the body in an urn. In the case of important people, the organs might be interred elsewhere.

The corpse was washed inside and out and often stuffed with herbs and spices, depending on the wealth of the family. Major blood vessels might be seared before the body was wrapped in layers of our waxed cloth, most oft called cerements, for the Latin word
cera
meant wax.

Even today, by the saints, this task brought back too many bad memories, so I was grateful Maud had lately taken it on. With Will’s and Gil’s help, I had wrapped my parents’ and brother’s bodies; Gil and Maud had not let me help
with Will’s. But Edmund’s little frame—I had wrapped Edmund and then held him in my arms until they pulled him away.…

“The other bad thing is,” John Barker was saying—he ever looked for problems—“that Their Majesties plan to view the princess’s passing by with her entourage tomorrow from the window of the haberdasher William Geoffrey in Cheapside, and he’s the one who will head this man’s burial procession. Wrap him good now, because he’s going to have to wait for burial at least until the day after the wedding, and then mayhap in secret, since there are to be jousts and revels at Westminster for several days, and all that following the banquet at Baynard’s Castle. Physicians and barber-surgeons are to stand at the ready lest any knights are hurt at the tilt rail.”

I said naught about those festivities, though Nick had told me much of them and had promised I might have a glimpse. I accepted my payment from John and Clement—yes, that’s right; that was his name—and took my leave. This house was not far from Walbrook, which was hard by St. Mary Abchurch, where my family was buried. I had visited their graves frequently after each funeral, then less often, the same with even Will’s and Edmund’s, because I could not bear the pain. But today I would go, then hie myself to St. Paul’s.

My parish church was situated on a slight rise in the southwest section of Walbrook Ward. With its turfy graveyard curled around it on three sides, the old gray stone building abutted Abchurch Lane and Candlewick Street. My people were buried on the south side, for by tradition the north was
the domain of the devil, the burial site for unbaptized infants, suicides, and criminals. Tall, thick yews hunched over the mossy stones, for those trees were evergreens, to remind us of eternal life, and their red berries to recall Christ’s blood shed for us. I passed through the stone wall, using the lych-gate with its roof-covered seats where the bearers of coffins oft rested out of foul weather.

The gate creaked, even as I closed it carefully. Though I had not been aware of him before, I saw a man I did not recognize coming close behind me. He nodded, entered also, and, with his hooded black cloak flapping in the fitful breeze and snagging on his sword, he walked around the church to the north side. No one else was in sight in the graveyard, though it was midmorn and others passed by, so I had no fear.

I slowly approached the single, small headstone that marked the Westcott plot: WCOTT, it read, for many of the smaller stones had shortenings of the names. The one marking the Waxman graves where my parents and brother lay had praying hands and WXMN. In faith, I supposed it hardly mattered how earthly records read, for human bones might lie here, but their spirits had long since flown away.

So why could I not let Edmund go from my thoughts? I agonized as I knelt by his grave. And why was Her Majesty yet haunted by her losses, especially those of her brothers who died long ago? Though if they were indeed murdered, of course, she could yet seek justice or revenge.

Despite the past summer season, the grassy turf above my child’s coffin had not yet regrown. I had thought that carving the queen’s effigies of her children had helped me
to pass beyond grieving, but kneeling there, I felt the crushing weight of loss again. How I wished I had Nick to listen to or talk to now—just to know that he was near and—

“I beg your pardon, mistress, but you seem familiar with this area.”

I sucked in a sharp breath, then steadied myself and rose quickly to my feet. It was he who had come in the gate behind me, and I had not heard a sound of his approach.

“Yes, sadly. Are you looking for a particular grave?”

“I am. I’m from the country, in town for the great events. I believe my cousin, last name of Stoker, is buried here. Have you seen such a grave? And permit me to introduce myself—Alan Bainton from near Colchester.”

“I’m sorry, but I know of no one by the name Stoker, even in this parish,” I said, deciding not to give him my name in return.

Alan Bainton was tall and thin, but he emanated a certain strength. His hood, pulled up against the wind that snatched at our garments, shadowed his face with its grizzled beard, but his aquiline nose and dark eyes were prominent. Though it was hard to tell because of his hood, he seemed to have silvery hair. I could not guess his age. As if his throat were sore, his voice was hoarse, almost a whisper, but strangely, it commanded my attention. He was attired in plain garb but for his shined boots, which flaunted spurs, though I had not seen that he had a horse when he entered.

“Perhaps it is my mistake to search here,” he said.

“The other parish church is St. Swithin’s, just down that way,” I told him, pointing. I needed to leave now. I should head for St. Paul’s.

“I will try that and inquire within of both priests,” he said. “I have a very ill cousin and will want to bury him with the other.”

He wore riding gloves, ones that also were too fine for the rest of his garb. He must have money then. “If you need votive candles or waxen shrouds, my family owns the Westcott Chandlery on Candlewick Street, at the sign with the blue candle. It’s an area of chandleries, but our sign has the blue color,” I repeated.

He made a stiff little bow. “I shall remember that, and I thank you for your present and future assistance.” The moment he turned to go out through the gate, I realized I had been holding my breath. Once he was in the street, I hurried out the gate and stretched my strides toward St. Paul’s. I looked back once to be sure he was heading in the direction I had indicated, but he had vanished.

Much ado at St. Paul’s Cathedral had already begun when I arrived. Outside, the huge, elevated wooden platform on which the marriage service itself would be solemnized had been completed, and common folk buzzed around its base like bees. Inside the cool cathedral, I hurried through the nave, where wooden seating had been erected for the nobility, then through the choir toward the high altar. Christopher and Robin Longfellow, head of the wax chandlers’ guild, seemed to be giving directions, as others I recognized scurried about. The best beeswax tapers we London chandleries had to offer were being set in or spiked to wood-and-iron supports called candle beams, and the pulley ropes that hoisted them aloft were being tested.

“Ah, Varina, my dearest,” Christopher called, and motioned me over. “If you could review the tapers in the candelabrum on both sides of the altar—be sure each stands erect—that would be a great help.”

“Our lady of the new coat of arms,” Robin welcomed me with a nod and a smile. He had looked as if he would kiss me in greeting, but with a glance at Christopher had obviously changed his mind. Our voices echoed even when we spoke in whispers here. “I’ve taken a peek at it—almost done, though I plan to petition for some sort of heraldic beasts to be added too, perhaps unicorns, appropriate with the maiden of the painting.”

“Did you not think that with the new ‘Truth Is Light’ motto,” I said, “the lady should be holding a candle or lantern?”

“If beholders of it don’t know it’s our company’s crest, that just shows their ignorance,” Robin said huffily, and Christopher nodded, though he also gave me a quick hand motion that said silently,
Get busy!

So I did, scrutinizing and aligning the tall tapers near the high altar, where the royal couple would join hands and lives—and countries. Nick had told me that Prince Arthur spoke no Spanish and Princess Catherine no English, so until they learned each other’s languages, scholarly Latin would have to do between them. How many spouses, I mused, had problems really talking, even when the couple both spoke in the same tongue? Will and I had had our share of small disagreements, though he had almost always won in the end. Sometimes, when I was fretting over being scolded
or overruled, I used to think to myself that I would choose my own husband next time, one who would heed my thoughts a bit more—and that was hardly Christopher Gage.

When I finished my assigned task, I stood against a pillar that joined another in a sweeping arch overhead, and felt very small. I planned to take my son and, with Gil and Maud, join the throngs in the street to catch a glimpse of the princess’s parade tomorrow and then to find a place from which to view the ceremony itself on Sunday.

“Varina,” Christopher said, appearing suddenly at my side, “since no one is below in the crypt, would you like to go down with me to see the chapel of the guild of the Holy Name of Jesus? I promised you might donate some of its votives, and I shall try to keep that promise—but only if you would make a certain promise to me.”

He took my hand, and I did not protest. I would much rather see the chapel than discuss the possibility of our union, and I should have paid better attention to his words. Granted, I saw clearly that marriage to this man would be the best business decision for my family, my shop, my own prestige. Yet my own stubbornness held me back.

He led me away from the altar where the choir joined the great nave, and, looking around, evidently to see that no one was watching, he unlocked a small wooden door with a rounded top. He took a lighted lantern from a huge hook just inside and, holding it aloft so both of us could see the narrow, curving steps, led the way down.

I was impressed and intrigued. Down, around we went. I prayed silently that we would not be going to a small
chamber, for these stairway walls seemed to close in upon me. The stone stairs were worn to grooves by generations of feet, and someone had swept the staircase clear of dirt and cobwebs. At least it was not dark below, for wan light greeted us. Was a guard kept here?

Yet when the stairway narrowed even more, I hesitated and slowed.

“What is it?” he asked, turning around and looking up at me. The shadows on his face from his lantern made him look spectral.

“I just…Lately, small, enclosed places make me anxious.”

“Nonsense. The chapel itself is domed and the crypt beyond is vast. It has some ancient burials and monuments, but that usage had been halted of late. I am with you, Varina. There is naught to fear.”

I did so want to see this place where the prestigious religious guild connected to the Worshipful Guild of Wax Chandlers met. I had concocted a theory, however whimsical, that if I could provide votives for the altar here, even pray within its realms, the Lord might ease my mind over Edmund’s loss. Had He not already bestowed blessings upon me with my duties at the palace, memorializing lost children for our beloved queen?

Though the temperature was merely cool and seemed constant down here, my teeth chattered and my pulse pounded. Then, in a brighter burst of light—from four lanterns someone must keep burning—we stood in the chapel of the guild of the Holy Name of Jesus.

It was deserted, silent—as a tomb. But it boasted wall hangings, padded seats on eight wooden benches with
kneelers, and a painted triptych behind the ornate altar with its golden crucifix. “Come,” Christopher said, and, putting his lantern down, he recaptured my hand and led me forward.

For a moment I felt lost in the beauty of it all, the stunning richness, yet the delicate details. Behind the crucifix, painted on the triptych, were soaring angels filling the sky over the humble manger in Bethlehem. Amazing angels with gilded wings and halos and shimmering skirts soared, holding harps and golden trumpets. Lost in my thoughts and prayers, I did not protest as Christopher pulled me down to kneel at the prie-dieu before the altar.

“In this holy place,” he said, his voice a whisper, “I ask you, Varina Waxman Westcott, for the fourth and last time if you will be my wife.”