Mistress of Mourning Page 16

  I jumped when Enford, evidently leaning close over me, said, “I warrant they will put it in a little coffin of its own, but best to keep the water out every which way. It rains here as if Noah’s very flood were loosed again. Here, he’s ready.”

  I cleaned my hands in water and wiped them on a piece of cloth and stood to regard the kingdom’s onetime Prince of Wales, garbed in fine fashion, as if he would arise for a council meeting or a wedding feast.

  “I told the queen I would say a prayer over him,” I told the men. “If you would step out for a moment…”

  Frowning, muttering, the doctors did, and Nick hovered in the doorway. I slipped the ring Her Majesty had sent onto Arthur’s little finger and whispered to him, in the queen’s stead, “Your mother loves you and ever will, Arthur. And she will embrace you again someday in heaven.”

  I added a silent prayer. It had to be enough. Time was fleeting. I was certain the doctors had not done a good job here, either with embalming or ferreting out what had killed him.

  “Let’s finish,” I said, and Nick called them back in.

  We rolled and tucked and wrapped the body in double what I would have used for any other mortal shell. Then the doctors summoned guards, and six of them lifted the body and carried it out, shoulder high, to where a black velvet–lined coffin sat upon the bier. Several priests appeared to pray and chant as Arthur was laid in the coffin and the top was closed, bolted, and covered with another black velvet pall.

  Over the coffin, workers raised a canopy of black cloth stitched with a white cross. Banners of the Trinity, the Lord’s cross, the blessed Virgin, and Saint George were put in place, each adorning a corner of the coffin. The bier was guarded by six other men with shiny breastplates and halberds facing outward. I quickly oversaw the placement of votive candles on and around the altar, and the castle steward arranged the flaming torches along the walls in huge sconces.

  Side by side, Nick and I knelt at the coffin as others of the household were permitted to come in, then were slowly, silently ushered out. Many wept openly; some whispered prayers and crossed themselves. I told myself I must remember details of the scene to tell the queen.

  When Nick and I stepped out of the little chapel, despite the mood of mourning, I whispered to him, “Did you go along or, at least, how much did you know about the royal couple’s foray outside the castle? Cave damp and bogs—”

  “He used me for an emissary to the Welsh chieftains, who should soon be here. I was out for two or three days at a time, so I missed that. They had both already taken to their beds when I returned, and I did not know they’d ventured out.”

  I scolded myself for my frustration at him. Surely he would have told me already if he’d accompanied Arthur and Catherine outside the castle. Ah, but I understood feeling imprisoned by the weather and the walls, for after the horror of being chased into the lightless crypt at St. Paul’s and finding Signor Firenze’s body, I’d felt a prisoner in my own home. And to always have the added strictures of servants, attendants, and guards, the royal couple must have suffered from spring fever and become a bit headstrong and careless. But were they to blame for their own sudden illnesses or was someone else?

  As we walked back into the great hall, a dark-haired man with a short beard beckoned us off to the side. “One of the princess Catherine’s closest advisers,” Nick whispered, and escorted me over to him.

  Before Nick could introduce us, the man spoke in such a rush I could barely understand his Spanish-accented English. “I am Alessandro Geraldini, sí, the Infanta Catalina’s chaplain, as you say here, eh? I sent to say Her Grace did read the queen’s letter and she see you now.”

  So, I thought, as Nick nodded and we followed the man’s quick steps, the next path of our inquiry had just been decided for us.

  CHAPTER THE FOURTEENTH

  Princess Catherine did not rise to greet us, and I quickly saw why, for she appeared wan and weak. At least she was out of bed, dressed in a black brocade robe and sitting in a chair. Except for her chaplain, the lean and sallow Alessandro Geraldini—Nick had whispered to me that he was actually her confessor—she was alone.

  We sank in a bow and curtsy and stayed there, heads down, until she said in English, “Rise.” The priest indicated we should sit on stools that had been drawn up, while he stood behind her high-backed, carved chair.

  Although I had the feeling she understood most of what we said, Father Geraldini translated everything after her single English word. The queen had counseled that we must choose our translator carefully, but it was done for us, and surely we could trust a priest.

  “Her Grace,” Geraldini told us, “says she thank you for bringing the letter of comfort from the king and especially the one from the queen. She thinks of Her Majesty always as her English mother and by the name her people call her, Elizabeth the Good. And for your duties to the prince here, much gratitude to Master Sutton and now to Mistress Westcott.”

  Tears in my eyes, I nodded. Given permission to speak, Nick explained our hurried trip and added comforting words about my care of the prince’s body for burial. Through all that, as her confessor translated, Her Grace’s eyes moved back and forth from my face to Nick’s. Finally, she put up her hand and spoke to Geraldini words he translated, frowning.

  “The princess welcomes the death mistress and does know she is trusted.”

  The death mistress! What had the queen written to her daughter-in-law, or was that a misunderstanding of “mistress of mourning”? Had the queen told her outright that Nick and I would look into the circumstances of the prince’s death?

  Geraldini’s Spanish, Catherine’s Spanish, then Geraldini’s English made communication slow. Longing to ask my own questions, I shifted in impatience on my stool.

  “The princess Catalina, she been ill also,” Geraldini said. “She is grieving her royal husband’s delicate health not survive the attack.”

  Nick and I shot each other a sideways glance. I sensed he was reacting to the words “the attack.” But it had suddenly occurred to me to wonder why the king had been so adamant that his heir, in poor health as he was, make the grueling winter journey this far. I decided I would speak. “Do you refer to the attack of bad air or vapors, Your Grace? The prince’s doctors mentioned a venture outside the castle and into a cave and bog.”

  “Oh, sí,” she blurted out, directly to me in Spanish, as her lips lifted in a ghost of a smile, “era un día bonito, buscando por flores!”

  “It was lovely day,” Geraldini translated, “looking for flowers. You see, we had long, wet winter. The thought of daffodils cheered her, though they found few before going into the forest.”

  It seemed I was questioning him now. “Into the forest too? To search for more flowers, since they were not yet in bloom around the moat?”

  “Prince Arthur wanted to show her the place the Welsh hero Owen Glendower has been,” Geraldini told us on his own, as if he should be answering for her after her impassioned outburst. “They did go into the forest near the ancient Welsh stone tomb, not far from the old herb woman’s hut they did visit. Time and again, Princess Catalina said it was a day they shared she will ever remember—and then they both took ill.”

  Catherine—obviously her Spanish entourage still called her by her Spanish name, Catalina—spoke to Geraldini again in a rush of words. Then it seemed her strength was gone, for she leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. I saw she was crying unashamedly, gripping the arms of her chair and not covering her face.

  “They had a sudden parting, she to her doctors, he to his,” Geraldini said. “Messages sent, even a flower he begged be picked for her. But never did she see him again, and now outside, the flowers are in all bloom.…”

  The man’s voice broke. Nick sniffed. I blinked back tears as Catherine’s confessor pointed to a small metal vase with a single flower in it, a daffodil, quite slumped and dead.

  “Perhaps more conversation another day,” Nick said, standing. We both bent at the
knee, but the princess did not gaze on us again as we backed away and left her chambers.

  Huddled over the small table in my room, Nick and I supped together as if, I thought, we were wedded. We were making plans around the necessary duties we must perform here. We had been informed that at first light, the prince’s heart would be buried in the churchyard with the attendance of several Welsh chieftains, English Marcher lords, and senior officials from the royal household and council. Both of the prince’s physicians as well as Nick and I were to attend.

  “We need to find someone who was with them the day they went out,” I said as we finished our repast with cheese tarts and cream. “They must have taken someone along, and I’d rather not have one of her ladies in tow as a guide when we retrace their steps.”

  “I hear they did not take an entourage, only two guards. I hope I can find one of them who recalls exactly where they went in the forest and the bog. It’s a big, wild area, though I’ve heard of the tomb they must have visited. It’s called a cromlech. Although it’s the burial place of an unnamed king from centuries ago, the folk hereabouts claim their ancient hero Owen Glendower’s spirit visits there. As for an old herb woman in the forest—well, I’ll go to the guardroom when we’re finished here and ask around. So, are we finished here?” he asked, and his voice shifted from quick and crisp to slow and sweet.

  “After the week and the day we have had, I believe so,” I said. “That bed looks inviting.” I felt myself blush the moment I blurted that out.

  His eyes held mine like a magnet. “I was thinking the same thing, but business first, right?”

  I could only nod mutely, even after all my earlier questions and opinions. He stood and came closer, so close I had to look up at him. I realized I did look up to him too, in admiration of his strength and in gratitude for his kindnesses to me.

  I went willingly as he drew me up into his arms. I lifted mine over his shoulders and linked my hands behind his strong neck. My heartbeat kicked up, thudding in my ears. As I was pressed so close to him, did he feel that too?

  He kissed me. Not just kissed me, possessively and thoroughly, but caressed me at the same time, back and waist, even cupping my bottom through my skirts as if to lift me. My hands stroked the crisp hairs on the nape of his neck, and I clung to him while the entire room and castle tilted and swayed. My breasts tight to his chest, the heat of my blush turned to fire. He tipped me back a bit and I clung to him, my mouth open to his sweet assault, which I wanted desperately and gave back mindlessly.

  I could not think, could not breathe, would never have said “stop” had he laid me on the bed across the room and possessed me there. Somehow, we turned and whirled together as if in a dance, and I found myself pressed to the wall next to the door while his lips raced down my throat to the tops of my breasts.

  He tugged one sleeve off my shoulder to lower my neckline and his tongue darted there in the valley between my breasts. Like a green girl, I gasped for air, for sanity. My legs went weak as water, but he held me up.

  Breathing raggedly against my damp flesh, he whispered, “Later. I know not when, but later!”

  Did he mean this night? After we went home? After—

  “I need to get to the guardroom before most of them go to bed. And before I gainsay the queen’s orders that I am to protect you, to keep anyone from laying a hand on you. I am certain she meant that to include me. I know you do not want to give out falsely that we are betrothed, and if we are found together alone in the night or at morn—I thought to risk it this one time—I will have to answer to her, despite my own hunger for you. I will see you in the morning for the burial of Arthur’s heart—and so now, somehow, will bury mine.”

  After that tirade of words and passion, though he was breathing heavily, he merely pecked a kiss on my cheek, opened the door, and went out, closing it carefully behind him. I leaned against the wall for a long time, not trusting my legs, savoring the memory of his touch, grateful the queen cared for my safety but furious that Nick had applied that promise to himself.

  It was a large crowd, I thought, for the burial of a heart, so what must the coming funeral be? Big-shouldered Welsh chieftains, some wrapped in bulky furs, with heavy beards and wide, solid swords at their sides, stood cheek by jowl next to finely attired English lords from the borderlands or London.

  The king’s chief mourner, the Earl of Surrey, had arrived with his large retinue and seemed to command everyone’s attention and respect. I watched him closely as he presided over this sad event. Though Nick had said Thomas Howard, Earl of Surrey, was nearly sixty years old, he looked younger, with his alert face, clipped auburn beard, muscular form, and upright, almost regal posture.

  Nick had told me he’d once been loyal to King Henry’s rival, Richard III, and had even fought against the Tudors in the Battle of Bosworth Field. After being confined to the Tower for a time, he was released, pardoned, even rewarded for his skills as a soldier against the Scots. Like James Tyrell, Surrey had been taken back into the king’s good graces because he needed men like that. No doubt Nick hoped that, on a lesser scale, he could earn his family’s way back too.

  I pulled my eyes away from Surrey as the alabaster jar Nick and I had wrapped in Westcott wax cloth was lowered into a metal box already placed in the ground.

  Evidently in order of precedence, beginning with the Earl of Surrey, the major English and Welsh mourners shoveled soil atop the metal box, then individually took their leave, heading inside the castle. The hollow thuds echoed at first, then became more muted. In my trembling hands I held a spray of daffodils delivered to me by the princess Catherine’s confessor, with her request that I place them on the ground above her husband’s heart. Poor Catherine was mourning alone, as was customary, and too weak to attend anyway.

  Why, I wondered, was I blessed—or cursed—with the trust of royal women? Who would have thought an angel candle someone took to the queen, one such as I had sent to the princess this morning by her confessor, Geraldini, could have begun all this and put Nick in my life’s path?

  When the Latin words were spoken, the benediction said, and, but for two guards, Nick and I stood there quite alone, I realized that I had been the only woman present. Ever the mistress of mourning, I told myself as I approached the burial spot in the walled churchyard, which could be seen from the ramparts of the castle. I would leave these flowers not only for the prince’s young widow, but also for his mother—yes, this would be something else I must tell the queen.

  Under the gaze of the two guards and Nick from behind, I placed the flowers, adjusting them prettily upon the freshly turned soil. Stepping back, I bowed my head in silent prayer, then took another step away, as I had learned to back away from the presence of royalty before leaving a room. I thought not only of the queen’s loss of her son but also of the loss of my Edmund. How I missed my dear boy Arthur, and prayed that he was well with Gil and Maud, and that no harm would ever come to him.

  As I looked up at the cloudy sky, my eye caught figures on the battlements, evidently watching. Three women together, the princess herself between two others, peeking between the jagged-toothed crenellations. I was tempted to wave, but—since they might not want to be seen—I resisted. What had it cost Catherine of Aragon in strength and courage to climb up there to see at least a part of her husband buried?

  Nick looked up and obviously recognized her too. “She’s still weak, and the queen needs her back in London. Someone else is watching too,” he added as we both noticed a man on a different part of the battlements, quite alone, and not clad as one of the guards.

  “I see him,” I said. “But is it a man? Hard to tell when the cloak flaps like wings, as if he could swoop down here in a trice.”

  “It’s a man,” Nick said. “He has his hand on a sword and it glinted in the sun a moment ago. I think it might be the Earl of Surrey, gone up there to make certain all is accomplished that he’s been bound to oversee.”

  I started to walk away, but Nick
didn’t budge, and that pulled me back.

  “What?” I said. “It’s not the earl?”

  “I’m not certain—but…I’m just imagining things.”

  “Like the ghost of Owen Glendower?” I teased, trying to lighten both our moods. “The Welsh maid they sent me this morn says he’s still alive after ‘only’ one hundred years. She boasted that her brother is a brudwry, some sort of prophetic poet the Welsh love, and believe what they say too. The brudwry have poems and songs about how Glendower disappeared into the mist of the mountains when his rebellion against the English was put down, but that he is still alive and will return someday to avenge himself on Wales’s English conquerors.”

  “Perhaps by striking down the heir to the English throne?” Nick held my hand as we left the church graveyard and headed toward the castle. “That gives me chills,” he said with a noticeable shiver. “Not that they believe in a ghost, but that’s what they say about Lord Lovell: that he vanished into a mist and that he’ll be back to fight the Tudors any way he can. But let’s not fear poems and rumors. I’ve found a lad to lead us tomorrow in the steps the prince and princess took the day they went out on their venture, so we shall have one too.”

  “And, I pray, not contract noxious vapors. Nick, the fact the prince was nauseous…I wanted to ask the princess whether she was too, but when she became so tearful, I dared not.”

  “I know. We need to learn what the prince ate that day.”

  “You said you found a lad. So, not a guard who went with them?”

  “They took two guards and a local Welsh guide, the village apothecary’s son, Rhys Garnock. Both guards have, unfortunately, been sent ahead of us to prepare resting stops for the funeral cortege, but the lad will probably be most useful for getting us around, finding the same spots where they stopped.”

  “He’s the apothecary’s son?” I asked. “Can that mean anything? The prince’s doctors said they had the apothecary examine the man who may have had the sweat, but it was only fever and ague.”