Mistress of Mourning

by Karen Harper

  Today, in a corner table in the great hall, despite the mourners streaming through to pay homage to the prince, Nick had laid out his ten papers. With a lantern held for him, the earl bent over each drawing as Nick named the order of those in the cortege.

  Occasionally, Nick would shoot a question at me, such as, “Unless the skies turn fair, it will be pointless for anyone to so much as carry the unlit tall tapers before the coffin, right?”

  “Yes,” I said, staying on the other side of the table from the men and the earl’s hangers-on. “Soaked candle wicks would not light for the funeral in the cathedral itself. But I do understand the reason I should keep the coffin in sight. After being jostled on rutted, muddy roads, it may need to be rewrapped. I’ll need at least one extra packhorse to carry the long tapers and the rest of the waxen shrouds.”

  With a sharp look at me instead of Nick, Surrey interrupted. “You’ll see to that extra horse for your betrothed and her other needs, will you not, Sutton?”

  I saw Nick bite back a comment with a clenched jaw. Why did the earl have to bait him like that? Did he not like anyone in charge but himself, or was he upset to be taking orders from a man of lesser rank? Or even, perhaps, because Nick had arrived in time to pry me out of his lordship’s arms? At least I looked like a woman today, for I had decided to abandon my ruined clothes and pretense of being a lad. And to stand up more for myself with the earl, just as I had finally done with Christopher. Surrey was still full of lusty glances my way when Nick was pointing out this and that on the paper, so I simply ignored him, the king’s official royal emissary or not.

  Finally all was approved, we were dismissed, and Nick and I met in the corridor between our rooms. He told me, “I wish you could wrap both of us in that water-shedding cloth, if we’re still heading for town to see the apothecary. The rain’s not hard but it doesn’t let up—nor does the earl.”

  I agreed heartily but did not wish to argue. We yet had work to do for Her Majesty. “Do we need Rhys to show us the way, or do you know where the apothecary shop is?” I asked.

  “I doubt whether there’s more than one of them in that little town,” he said, his voice yet on edge. Besides being in a snit over Surrey’s attentions to me, he was obviously feeling the grip of the vise we were in, to be leaving soon and not to have found the evidence we needed.

  When we rode through showers and mist into gray stone Ludlow village, I realized again that Wales seemed such an otherworldly place that it cast spells on outsiders. Even now in the misty village, the stone walls running with rain seemed to weep and scowl. Since we’d arrived, strange things had begun to seem commonplace: Heroic ghosts from the past came and went, an aged woman sometimes looked young, and men appeared and disappeared at will. The past blurred so with the present that I had begun to imagine what it must have been like here when Glendower fought for freedom and when the Yorkist Richard of Gloucester, later to become king, lived at Ludlow with his loyalists who still might prowl these wet woods and spongy bogs.

  Nick was on edge too, for the way our enemy here seemed to appear and disappear reminded him of his archenemy, Lord Lovell. At least if the man was supposed to be hiding out on the Continent, he could hardly be the one causing havoc here. Despite the fact that we could not yet answer the queen’s questions about her son’s death, I was now counting the days until we could leave Wales.

  I soon saw that other things that we expected would be as they were in England were different here too. In this outlying area of the Tudor kingdom, there was no such thing called an apothecary like in London. When we asked the location of the Garnock apothecary, a woman said, “A what? Oh, ye mean the herbal? Percival Garnock is an herb-a-list,” she said as if we were dolts. “Down that way then.” Nor did I see the familiar phoenix rising nor an extended tongue with a pill painted on the sign over the door, but rather the picture of a crudely drawn plant that I could not name.

  Once we knocked on the door and introduced ourselves, Percival Garnock, balding, thin, and not as talkative as his son, swept us a bow and gestured us in. As we stepped into the herbal shop, a wave of yearning for the familiar things I loved hit me hard. The work counter held scales and weights, as in my chandlery. On the shelves, among pestles and vials and syrup bottles, I saw blocks of beeswax, though hardly for the purpose of molding candles.

  “To make chest plasters, mistress,” Master Garnock told me when he saw me staring.

  “Do you keep your own bees?” I asked as my eyes took in rows of small drawers and more shelves with glass carboys, funnels, and flasks displayed. I explained, “We can’t have them in the city but have our wax brought in from the country to make candles.”

  “Oh, aye, right out back, hives by the brook where my sons like to fish—aye, they do,” he told me, gesturing toward a window running with rain. I knew I must forgo my feelings of longing for my son and shop, for Nick was standing on one foot, then the other.

  “Your son Rhys was a fine help to us as guide,” Nick told the man.

  “He was honored to be there,” Percival Garnock said with a sigh. “To see the words of Glendower painted on the cromlech walls—such an honor.”

  I could tell Nick was going to put his foot in his mouth with the man. He’d been upset that Glendower and Lovell used the same motto, and that the Welsh stood in awe of their “ghost” when he hated his nemesis. A sharp approach wouldn’t do to get us answers or to ask for Rhys’s services in the future, so I quickly put in, “We came hoping you would share some of your vast herbal knowledge with us, Master Garnock.”

  “Wish the prince’s physicians would have thought o’ that afore he died. All they did was send for embalming herbs after he was gone.”

  “What would you have recommended for his cure?” I asked.

  “What I had little of but could have found fast from old Fey in the woods. Rosemary, aye, for coughs and breathing troubles. Sent Rhys to fetch some from her for others, but he’s not back yet. Why, the prince’s physicians also asked me after the fact if the single case of the sweat in the village could have hurt the prince, but Narn Romney didn’t even have the sweat!”

  Nick spoke up. “Master Garnock, what do you know of wild garlic in these parts? Can it be gathered this early?”

  “Soon. A week or two—less if some was in a sunny spot, but doubt it.”

  “Do you know of a local peddler who might sell it?”

  “Not likely. Besides, you’d need someone with my knowledge of herbs—or old Fey’s—to be sure this time o’ year to get the right thing. I swear, but that woman’s been around so long she might know everything; aye, she might.”

  With a shudder, recalling our interview with Fey, I forced myself to keep to the topic. “What do you mean, ‘to get the right thing’? Can it be confused with wild onions?” My conversation with Sim yesterday haunted me. He’d said his grandmother used to make him rabbit stew. But did his mother still live to mourn the loss of her son? She had no doubt been proud of his service to Their Majesties. Back in London, should I seek her out and comfort her—pay her something? Should I tell her I rued the day I’d taken him with me, and I understood the agonizing loss of a son?

  But my thoughts crashed to a halt when Master Garnock said, “Once in a while, wild garlic gets confused with meadow saffron, which pops up even earlier than the garlic. They look alike—aye, they do. But the latter’s deadly, so’s one must be sure what’s what. More’n once, horses or cows graze it and get sick or die quick.”

  Nick’s wide gaze slammed into mine. Deadly? Get sick and die? What if…what if the prince’s death was an accident? A peddler mistook meadow saffron for garlic and the prince did too? Or not really a peddler but a poisoner, one who knew the difference and had heard from Fey, from someone, that the prince was seeking garlic, a favorite spice and aphrodisiac. The horrid specter of the dead steer in the bog flashed through my mind. Could the peddler-poisoner have killed it with meadow saffron too? But then why eat tainted meat? Or was that meat from
something else and, for some reason, the heart from the big beast was the only thing the man wanted?

  Master Garnock walked to his wall of small wooden drawers and went immediately to one, lifting something out with a wooden pincer he had hanging on the wall. “It won’t harm you a bit from touching it, but I like to keep the flora pure of skin flakes or soil. Dried meadow saffron—the last of last year’s,” he said. He showed us the dried plant he had plucked out. It looked like a dead crocus flower without a bloom.

  Nick asked, “What are the specific symptoms of ingesting meadow saffron?”

  “In small doses, measured out by an herbalist, it can help fight the smallpox. But too much—dreadful belly pain,” he explained, dropping the plant in a small paper packet and handing it to me. “A burning mouth, then thirst and great difficulty swallowing. Nausea, running of the kidneys, slowing breath, then death, depending on the size, strength, and health of the victim. You…you don’t imply the prince…”

  “No, nothing of the kind,” Nick said. “We are simply inquiring, and appreciate your wisdom and your discretion.” Nick pulled two gold sovereigns from his leather pouch and placed them side by side on the counter with a finger yet on each coin, surely a fortune in a shop like this, even in my London shop.

  “Payment for my silence?” Master Garnock whispered, wide-eyed.

  “Not at all,” Nick said. “For your consideration that we might take your son Rhys with us in the funeral procession and so on to London. I will try to place him in the king’s household or, failing that, take him on myself. He said you had two younger sons more suited to the herbal trade and you might be so kind as to give him leave to try his luck in London for a year or so. You have been very helpful to us today, and I know your fine lad would be an asset to those of us who serve the king. Rhys is blessed to have a father who would consider letting him follow his head and heart.”

  At that, strangely, Master Garnock glanced from Nick to me. I thought he would ask whether we were wed, or why I had been garbed as a boy yesterday, but perhaps Rhys had not told him so. If he could keep his tongue on that—though maybe the cromlech visit of Glendower’s “ghost” knocked everything else from the boy’s head—he would be a welcome help to Nick or the king indeed. I noted well that Nick made no mention of trying to place the lad with the Earl of Surrey. And I saw the apothecary kept the coin Nick had offered.

  Percival Garnock said he would think on it and must speak to his wife. When we went back out into the rain, Nick told me, “I’m going to deliver you to the castle, then ride to talk to old Fey again. With this rain, she’ll be there.”

  “I’ll come too. You shouldn’t go alone.”

  “You were distressed near her last time.”

  “I was not distressed! She was just strange, that’s all, but then so are most around here. Besides, I want to hear what she says about meadow saffron—if she told someone that the prince was searching for wild garlic. It could be what poisoned Their Majesties. But accidentally or on purpose? We are to work together on all this—you said so and the queen did too!”

  “Come along then. I’d best keep my eye on you, since I’ve ever been ordered to—and wanted to—from the first.”

  With that, he gave me a quick boost up on my mount, and we were off to see someone I was certain was a witch, or perhaps, at the very least, just an everyday Welsh sorceress.

  Queen Elizabeth of York

  Despite how the king and I shared our grief for Arthur’s loss, it finally helped me to have my ladies about me too. I had wanted only to mourn alone at first, but their chatter and obvious care for me kept my mind occupied. Yet nothing could erase our being sent that horrid heart. Not a human heart, the king’s physician had said, but that of a cow or horse. Still, the king had written a missive to Nicholas Sutton demanding to know why it was sent and what he knew of it. The king had included in that missive a warning: An informant the king greatly trusted had heard that Lord Francis Lovell was back in England—but no one knew where or why.

  “I have a question to ask, Your Majesty,” Sibil Wynn said as she looked up from her tapestry frame. The two of us were momentarily alone, as the others had gone out to walk the lapdogs in the courtyard. “I heard that Nick Sutton returned to Wales in a rush. Will he be back soon?”

  “I thought you had your cap set for Nigel Wentworth.”

  “Oh—yes. I inquire about Nick only as a friend.”

  “I should think so, after Nigel has given you such fine gifts,” I told her, eager to get her off the subject of why Nicholas had been sent back to Wales. “It is obvious to me where Nigel’s heart—and, I pray, his future—lies. Even His Majesty has noticed how your suitor dotes on you.”

  “Oh—His Majesty too? I hope he knows how fine a man Nigel is, and that he is fully loyal now and wishes to serve with all his heart.”

  “Exactly what I was saying. With all his heart—which I hope is set on you, Sibil. You must be careful to guard your maidenhood until you are certain he wants a wife and not a liaison. Before all this unhappiness, I was waiting for Nigel’s request for a betrothal with you, but I warrant he will wait now for the period of mourning to end—to end formally,” I added with a sigh. “For me, it will never really be over.”

  “I do understand,” Sibil went on in a rush, her needle poised above her work. “It’s just that Nick and I worked together for Your Majesty’s special task, and I wondered what he is doing now.”

  “I value and appreciate your discretion on your fetching Varina Westcott to the palace,” I said, trying another tack to shift the subject.

  “I’ll never tell, but can you trust the candle merchant? Surely she must be proud of what she’s done, such beautiful carvings. She and Nick got on overwell, I thought, considering her position here—and in life. Of course, that is all past now, since she’s gone back to her shop, but I just hope she resists the temptation to boast of what she did here.”

  I said nothing for a moment and folded my hands in my lap. I had noted a certain camaraderie between Varina and Nicholas. He was ambitious, so I had always imagined he would try to make a prestigious marriage. I did not want him simply toying with my wax woman’s affections, and had told him he might mention their betrothal in Wales only if he needed to protect their reputations or further their investigation. Should I not have overstepped there? Had Varina or Nicholas overstepped with each other?

  I said only, “Varina Westcott is of service to me. She is a fine wax candle carver and candlemaker. And do not pass on gossip in general, as it is most unbecoming.”

  “As you say, Your Majesty,” Sibil said, looking not a bit contrite as she bent back over her needlework. But, frowning, she looked up again. “Do you mean gossip such as that Sir James Tyrell, who is in the Tower, is being questioned for terrible past crimes even beyond his recent defiance of the king?”

  I nearly dropped my book. No one was to know what Tyrell was being examined for! Could someone have spread the word that he might be complicit in my dear brothers’ murders?

  “What is being noised about?” I demanded. “Exactly what and by whom?”

  She looked startled at my outburst. “I can’t recall who said it. I just heard Tyrell’s in the Tower for questioning about more than refusing to return to England when ordered to do so. Oh, Your Majesty, I only wanted to ask about Nick, and now I’m quite undone and you are too. Forgive me.”

  “I will if you leave me alone just now. And do not listen to or spread tittle-tattle about Nicholas Sutton, Varina Westcott, James Tyrell, or anyone else!”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” She stabbed her needle back into the tapestry, stood, and flounced out her skirts. Looking suddenly pleased with herself, despite my scolding tone, she bent me a quick curtsy and was out the door.

  I regretted I had lost control, but too much seemed to be spinning out of my control. If word was out about Tyrell’s questioning, would his answers become public knowledge too? And though Sibil Wynn had heard such bandied about, would
I be the last to know?

  Mistress Varina Westcott

  We found the path toward Fey’s clearing after two wrong starts. The rain was turning the forest path into a bog, which unnerved me. Worse, we heard someone singing strangely, coming toward us. Rhys had indicated that Fey did not venture out in bad weather, but could it be she?

  “Stay back,” Nick whispered, and drew his sword ahead of me. Thank the Lord, it was Rhys who emerged from the tall grass, head down, slogging along on foot toward us and singing in a strange falsetto. He was walking in water nearly up to his boot tops and, despite a felt hat, was dripping wet, with his hair plastered to his forehead.

  “Oh, milord—and milady,” he said as Nick’s sword scraped back into its scabbard. “If you be looking for Fey, she’s not there. Went to get rosemary from her. And”—he lowered his voice so I could hardly hear him in the patter of the rain—“it looks like she just flew away.”

  “Flew away?” Nick demanded. “What do you mean?”

  “Her footprints are in the mud and then—whoo—just gone.”

  I had no idea what he meant, and Nick must not either, for, frowning, he turned back to shake his head at me, then told the lad, “We’ve been to see your father and asked about your services, which we could use now. Here, I’ll give you a hand up, and you ride behind me.”

  “What did he say, milord? Can I go with you to London Town?”

  “He said he’d talk to your mother and think on it.”

  He hauled the lad up, and we were off again. By the saints, my heart pounded so hard it muted the rain. Rhys began to thank Nick for talking to his father, then just went silent too.

  “Fey!” Nick shouted when we reached her clearing. “Fey!”

  At Nick’s voice, two vultures sitting on her smokeless chimney took flight. Rhys pointed at a spot on the ground, and we rode slowly over, leaning from our saddles to look at it. The rain pattered down less here, since a large oak with new-budding leaves leaned over us.