Mistress of Mourning Read online

  “You fear poisoning, Your Majesty?” Nick asked.

  “I fear evil, and I bid you both beware. If you can find what Their Graces did, where they went—yes, what they ate or drank that might have brought on…brought on what happened…”

  She heaved such a huge sigh that I thought her already slumped form would deflate further. But she was strong even with the burden of this crushing loss, as I must learn to be, so that I too could bear my son’s loss. So that I could take on this task she had laid upon us. So that, even though I would have Nick at my side, I could weather this dangerous duty in distant Wales.

  CHAPTER THE TWELFTH

  “I understand why she chose me…to oversee…care of…his body.” My words to Nick came out jerkily as we jolted along mile after mile on the same huge horse. “But I’ve never tried…to find out why someone died.”

  Had I made a statement or asked a question? And it had sounded like a rhyme.

  “Later,” he said only. “Later for much more.”

  And what did that mean? I longed to ask. I had the strangest urge to laugh, though being garbed as a lad still sobered me. How I had yearned to be part of the all-men chandlers’ guild and their secret society; now here I was, looking like one of a band of men in service to Their Majesties. I found a sense of heady freedom in all this. Freed from my long skirts, my daily duties, even from the confines of London, I dared to feel that I was momentarily free too of the rules that bound women. I was important. I knew I had some power, though I felt frightened and exhausted. Still, Nick had not answered my question, and I could not even think beyond right now.

  Even the horses we rode were able to rest, for we stopped for fresh ones every twenty miles or so on this route that Nick and several others had ridden only yesterday in the opposite direction. Then too, despite my initial excitement to see some of England, I barely knew where we were. So far, the ride had been a blur of hamlets, towns, fields, and forests.

  Yet I adored the sweeping sensation of riding astride behind Nick in the big saddle meant for a man in full armor. I bounced against him with my thighs spread by his lean buttocks while my breasts rubbed his back and my arms held to his flat, hard waist. The garnet necklace he had given me slid up and down against the bare skin of my throat. It made my body ache for him, though, by the saints, I must not think so, for this was the most serious of ventures.

  I had made myself save the repeated question of “Why me?” until we were dismounting again, for if Nick didn’t turn his head, I could not hear what he said. Besides, I recognized that among our companions, we could hardly shout back and forth about our secret assignment. At least now we were hemmed in by the fifteen others dismounting amid creaking saddles and horse snorts, so no one would hear us.

  “Nick,” I whispered, “why did she choose to send me—to discover the reason for his death, I mean?”

  “The queen trusts you, for one thing.” He lifted me down before what looked to be a country inn. My knees nearly buckled, but his hand steadied me until I got my land legs. “Varina, you are known by but a few people, so that is of import to her, and—”

  “So since I am of no account to those important enough to have harmed the prince,” I said, hands on my hips, “I will not cause undue interest?” What was wrong with me? I suddenly sounded like a shrew.

  “That is part of it. You are of interest to me, however, so be reasonable about this.”

  “Reasonable? Preparing the royal body for the grave is one thing, but to leave my son and family, searching for a mysterious man or men, suddenly does not sound reasonable.”

  Before he could scold me, I ran inside for some privacy to relieve myself and to grab some drink and sustenance. But the moment we were on fresh horses again, I pursued my query, this time hoping to keep my temper in check.

  “And you will not cause undue interest either?” I asked, leaning around his shoulder to keep my voice down. I was becoming more fearful that I had agreed to all this, leaving my son, home, and shop. Jamie was taking word back to Gil and Maud—I had written a note to Arthur about riding clear to Wales with our funeral goods—but when would I be able to go home? “Are we,” I went on when he didn’t answer, “to play the parts of the sheriff and the crowner who questioned me about poor Signor Firenze’s death?”

  He turned his head so I could hear him over the thunder of hoofbeats. Even from his profile, I could tell he was frowning. “In a way, but without their blatant authority. I know it is a new and difficult challenge for you to serve Their Majesties this way.”

  “But you are used to such assignments?”

  “I told you I yearn not only to prove myself but also to protect the Tudors. You’re exhausted, Varina. We all are. Best, like a warrior heading for battle, you learn to sleep in the saddle.”

  In other words, he wanted me to keep still, to go back to acting the way I had for years, doing what I was told by the male members of my family, then by the Tudors, and now by him. I leaned my forehead against his shoulder blade. “I must be both tired and mad,” I said, quietly enough that I thought he could not hear.

  “It may be a madman we’re after,” he said, surprising me. “We both have a stake in this, Varina. We shall phrase our inquiries carefully, if not covertly. I should tell you aforehand that the lady made me vow I would protect you and your honor, especially since you are unescorted by womenfolk on this journey.”

  My honor? Reputation, he meant, of course, the very thing Christopher had bemoaned about himself. I supposed Nick meant that he had taken some sort of vow, for the queen oft spoke in terms of those. Had he promised her not to lay an untoward hand on me?

  May the Lord forgive my wayward thoughts, but that angered me at the queen a bit. I was irked at Nick too—at the entire world, including myself for getting into this—but I was not prepared for the next words he spoke. Perhaps he had waited until we were mounted and on our way again so he did not have to face me.

  “She also said,” he told me, “that should some question of impropriety between the two of us arise, I can say that we are betrothed, so tongues will not wag.”

  I sucked in a sharp breath. He said no more. Was he now silent because he assumed I must accept such an arrangement, since it came from the queen? Or because he was angry he must play that part? After all, anything between us of lasting value was impossible, with our different stations in life and his desire to live close to the Tudors—wasn’t it? I felt as if cold water had been thrown on my yearning for him, my mooning over the two kisses we had shared. Despite the weight of his gift to me around my neck, there would never be a betrothal ring, so my desire for him must be tamped down. God’s truth, I must not act the strumpet with him or become merely his mistress!

  What was wrong with me? I asked myself. I desired Nick; I was honored to serve the queen. Yet this new sense of power and import had made me argue, made me challenge Nick, want to fight him.…I sputtered with frustration, perhaps with longing too, but held my tongue—for now.

  As we entered another stretch of thickening forest, our guards pulled tighter to surround us and the ten burdened horses. I could only pray we’d packed the wax cerements and candles well enough for safety’s sake. I heard at least two swords scrape from their scabbards lest we be beset by thieves. Night was drawing nigh, and thickening shadows shifted through the woods. Two more hours or so, Nick had promised earlier, and we would stop for a while to sleep. He, I realized, had not slept since leaving Ludlow with his dire news, yet he managed to remain calm and controlled, while I seemed to be losing that battle. I yearned for a soft bed, but not one with Nick Sutton in it!

  Despite all that had just passed between us—our first argument?—I held tighter to him as the forest road down which we plunged closed in to resemble a tunnel. Dark bushes brushed our feet, and giant oaks loomed overhead, some with low limbs as if to grasp at us. We passed through deep, mossy banks where the faint smell of wood smoke from invisible chimneys or campfires wafted on the air. Erratic dirt
tracks led from this main road into mazes of thickets. Whether such paths were beaten bare by beasts of the animal or human kind, I was not sure.

  But despite my fears, I could not leave our discussion where it had ended. “Well,” I finally said, “I hope it doesn’t come to our having to claim a betrothal, even if we are in an untamed land.”

  Again he turned his head to speak over his left shoulder. “The idea would be distasteful to you?”

  “Absurd, that is all. We must, of course, tell some lies of necessity, but I don’t think that particular one will work. Why would a king’s man on the Tudor ladder to power and popularity want his name linked with a mere chandler and candlemonger?”

  “The lady has made you more than that. You have made yourself more than that, Varina, and you are more than that to me.”

  I held to him, my arms tight around him, my anger, if not my fears, dissipating a bit, yes, lifting away. I suddenly felt dizzy, but not from exhaustion or the continual bouncing. You have made yourself more than that, Varina, and you are more than that to me.

  It was one of the most seductive, inspiring statements a man had ever made to me, and from this man I so admired and—saints preserve me—also desired.

  Queen Elizabeth of York

  The king downed a few gulps of wine and nibbled a bit of cheese, then took a huge bite of bread and chewed quickly. Finally my urging that he take some sustenance was rewarded, though I sensed trouble coming. I had just told him what privy duty, besides delivering candles and shrouds, I had given to Nicholas and Varina, and I feared he wanted to fortify himself for battle.

  “I cannot believe you took that into your own hands,” he said, his voice low and slow. “Granted, foul play could have caused Arthur’s death, but trusting the discovery of such to Nick Sutton and a female chandler?”

  “Varina Westcott is talented, bright, and circumspect. Her chandlery makes the best waxen cerements. I had her carve some candles for me. You said I could care for ordering the candles and wax cloth.”

  “Yes, yes, that is not what I meant. To have the two of them, however carefully, inquire into what Arthur and Catherine ate, where they went…I could have assigned someone to do all that.”

  “But it has to be done now, while evidence—clues—are fresh, and by someone who does not seem official—not an arm of the king.” I rose from my chair across the corner of the table in his privy withdrawing room and knelt before him, draping my breasts and arms across his knees as if to cling to him in supplication. “My dear lord, they can inquire sub rosa, go about the grounds or trace Their Graces’ steps without drawing attention—at least I pray so, lest some of our enemies mayhap yet lurking about that area ferret them out.”

  “Such as whom?” he asked, lifting my face with his hand so that I stared up into his narrowed eyes.

  “Wales still has wolves,” I told him, my voice strong. “Not only the four-legged kind but also the two-legged Yorkist wolves in Tudor sheep clothing. You have said so yourself.”

  “But do you have someone specific in mind?” he demanded, his voice finally rising to its usual volume and pitch.

  “You know there have been rumors about Lord Lovell returning from Europe.”

  “Only rumors. The way the bastard keeps disappearing, giving us the slip, causes wishful chatter about him. I’ve had some reports that he’s been seen too, but the man’s a damned chameleon, so no one knows what he looks like anymore.”

  “So you’ve heard reports also. Isn’t it true that, as your sworn enemy, Francis Lovell used to spend much time in that area of Wales before my uncle was king?”

  “But the point is, will you, a woman, go behind my back in political matters?”

  “Political? I say family matters, and that is a woman’s realm. Our Arthur is dead, and, despite his weak health, we’re not truly sure how or why! And Catherine is recovered, so why is he not also? As for other suspicious persons, what about Sir James Tyrell? Oh, yes, I know he’s back in France, but he has his minions too.”

  “Now you indeed overstep! He has been pardoned and is true to me!”

  “My dear lord, I tried to speak with him during the wedding festivities, but he avoided me. He knows the region around Ludlow like the back of his double-dealing hand, since he was commissioner of soldiers in Wales under my uncle Richard. And you have sent the Earl of Surrey as our chief mourner to Ludlow when he was once a Yorkist to the hilt.”

  “By hell’s gates! So were you, Elizabeth!”

  “By birth, yes—not truly by choice!”

  For one moment, my husband gaped at me, obviously stunned by my vehemence or my specific suspicions. However weak he had looked since we had heard the tragic news, he amazed me by standing in one swift motion and hauling me to my feet, so that I almost dangled before him.

  “I will see to James Tyrell!” He spit the words out. “You are hell-bent on blaming him for more than siding with your uncle in the wars, are you not? More perhaps than being invited to our heir’s wedding? I have told you I will undertake the inquiry into what certain men might or might not know concerning your other great matter from years ago!”

  Could he not even put into words the loss—the deaths—of my brothers, and one a rightful king? My great matter, he called it. Although James Tyrell had been in London for Arthur’s marriage and the joust—how I’d cheered when young Sutton had bested him—had Henry not yet questioned Sir James about his possible knowledge of my brothers’ deaths? Rumors had been circulating for years that Tyrell knew something of it. And now for Henry to react so strongly against my need to know about Arthur’s demise too, another prince perhaps done away with by foul play…

  Henry’s grip on my arms was hurting me, but his angry response to handling “my great matter” pained me the more. I wanted to rave at my husband. I wanted to yank away from his grasp and kick his shins and tear my headdress off again and scream. But I took the wisest way for now, a woman’s and wife’s way, because if I must work sub rosa myself, so be it.

  “I rue that I broke my promise not to bring this up until you gave me the report you promised,” I said, my voice trembling. I blinked back tears. “I know you are looking into all possibilities about the boon I begged of you, but I am so distraught over our dear Arthur’s death that I am quite undone.”

  He pulled me to him in a strong embrace. With my throat pressed against his shoulder, I could hardly swallow or breathe until I turned my head away. “Of course, I too,” he said. “I cannot bear to look ahead but only back, cherishing our boy, our heir, the happiness he had these last months. But I must prepare for the future; we both must. Once we are certain that Princess Catherine is not with child, I shall arrange for young Henry’s investiture as Prince of W—”

  A knock resounded on the door, and he slowly loosed me. “Speaking of which,” he said, “I’ve sent for Henry. With his brother gone, he now needs his father and king for a tutor.”

  He cleared his throat and strode behind the table, setting aside the tray of food and drink he’d hardly touched.

  “Enter!” he called out.

  My lord’s mother walked in with Henry in tow. “My lady,” he addressed Margaret Beaufort, “sit with Elizabeth in her chambers for a while, if you please. The Duke of York and I have matters to discuss.”

  Both his mother and I curtsied. I wanted to hug young Henry as I left, but with a hint of a swagger, he’d gone to his father, who was already bent over an account book he must mean to show the boy, as he once had Arthur. I was not comforted to be given over into the care of my mother-in-law, but as she rattled on, I prayed silently for the soul of my son, for the safety of his Spanish widow, and for the two I had sent to discover the cause of Arthur’s death—and mayhap his killer.

  Mistress Varina Westcott

  The second night on the westward roads toward Wales, we stayed on the fringes of Worcester, the town where the prince would be buried. I longed to have a chance to visit the Abbey of St. Wulfstan to decide on the placemen
t of candles, even to familiarize myself with the location of the coffin during the funeral and interment site, but there was no time now.

  We stopped the third night at Bewdley, one of Prince Arthur’s manor houses, with its little half-timbered town nearby. How proud he must have been of this place he would never see again. Black mourning banners and draperies shrouded many doors and windows. As if the manor needed protection from winds or perhaps border raiders, it huddled at the side of a hill. A full staff awaited us with lit fires and food, but despite the lanterns and torches, the site still seemed foreboding. The deep Wyre Forest bordered the property to the west, a brook to the north, and the roaring spring-melt River Severn to the east, as if we were on a little island.

  “At least there are many guards about,” I observed to Nick as we finished our hearty meal, surrounded by others in the prince’s dining hall.

  “It is royal property, but the area’s been in dispute for years. The argument is whether Bewdley sits in Shropshire or Worcester,” he explained. “As a result, the area harbors fugitives and criminals. Now, don’t fret about that. We’d best turn in, because at dawn’s early light, we’re off for the rest of our ride. No one will use the royal bedchambers, but you’ll have a private one with a feather mattress, and I’ll be right across the hall with some others. If you need me, just knock.”

  Everyone beat a quick retreat, and the house soon fell silent. I bathed in warmed water a servant had left, then slept the dreamless sleep of the dead—a sobering thought in this fine manor that now could belong to Prince Arthur’s father, his widow, or his younger brother. I’d bet on the king.

  The next morn, we ate a hot but quick breakfast of frumenty, then were on our way again. Nick looked much better, though he never looked bad to me. Yet I longed to smooth his hair, matted from his pillow, and the little creases imprinted on his cheek from a sheet or bolster. The linens and towels provided in my room, at least, had been most luxurious.