by Karen Harper
Queen Elizabeth of York
I was praying on my knees before the block of wax from which Varina Westcott would carve my beloved lost Arthur when I heard quick footsteps in the corridor. Fearful of anyone rushing about, I turned and rose as my last living son, Prince Henry, burst through the door.
“Mother!” he cried before I could say a word. “What’s all this?”
He was out of breath and red in the face. I was shocked to silence, and flushed that he had stumbled on my secret place.
“Oh, you can’t be here,” I cried foolishly. “This is my privy room, and whatever are you doing running hither and yon, as if someone’s chasing you?”
“Margaret and Mary are, but they’ll not find me. Never do when I give in to their pleas to play hide-and-seek. It just allows me to be free of them for a few moments. But this…I—I didn’t know—obviously…” he said, gawking at the figures.
It was too late to thrust him from the room or try to cover the obvious with a lie, not to clever Henry. But how to keep him from telling his father? Or was it time to tell the king so that he understood the depth of my brokenness in these children’s loss, even before Arthur’s murder? My son didn’t understand, of course. Would my husband?
While I wrung my hands as if I were of no account at all in this, Henry gaped at each waxen figure. “These are my dead brother and sister—but these?” he demanded, pointing at the carvings of my young brothers. “Are these the princes in the Tower—my lost uncles?”
“Yes. Yes, they are. All as dear to your mother’s heart as you are.”
“Especially now, since Arthur is gone too,” he said, and it hurt me to hear that so plainly, politically expressed. “The king does not know, does he?” Henry asked, still looking at the effigies and not at me.
He seemed older than a lad who would soon be twelve. Even without his moving again, his stance had a bit of a swagger. “Ah, no,” I said, “but, of course, I planned to tell him when the time was right.”
“And would that be now, since it’s been proven that terrible Tyrell killed them, though I warrant word of that is still a state secret?”
I frowned at him. Had he figured that out himself or had his father explained it to him? I still could not fathom why the king wanted the murderer’s identify kept secret except, he claimed, so the murders would not become a topic of contention again. Those who hated the Tudors had tried to say that Henry himself had wanted the boys out of his way too.
“Fine work, by the way,” Henry said. “As fine as that of Phidias, I’ve no doubt. I warrant the wax woman did these as well as candles?”
I had no notion of who Phidias was, but my son’s fine education and quick mind were no solace right now. “Yes, she did.”
I knew not whether he even heard me. He could not take his eyes off the effigies. He bent close, scrutinizing them from each side, every angle. My heart was pounding as he stared at my closely guarded treasures. Should I bargain with my boy for silence on this, even though I’d said I would tell the king?
Henry finally straightened to his full height, tall, robust, and well-favored for his age, older than his years in body as well as mind. His shock had dissipated now, and a little quirk crimped the corner of his full mouth, but not in a smile.
“You know, my lady mother,” Henry said, “perhaps it is best this not be sprung on Father at this time. I could keep your secret, if you wish, especially if we could trade favors.”
“Trade favors?”
“As you know, Father believes my investiture as Prince of Wales should be put off for a time, because of mourning for our dear Arthur. And so here I am, despite my school lessons and more time with the king, doing things like running from mere girls and stumbling on your secrets. But if the king could be encouraged to officially name me his heir, I wouldn’t have time to so much as mention this—and you could tell him in your own good time.”
I gasped audibly and stared at my son. A bribe. A threat. And yet, by the Virgin’s veil, I was tempted to take that brash bargain.
“Best neither of us tampers with king’s business, but I can see your point,” I said. I was stunned, floundering. Even Prince Arthur could not have come up with this carefully couched demand.
Henry looked suddenly uncertain I had called his bluff. “Then I shall rely on that,” he said as if we’d agreed. He bowed, backed away, then said, “I swear by all that’s holy, you will never have a death carving of me! I will live for the others, Mother. Live for you and be a strong prince and someday a great king!”
He spun away and was gone.
Mistress Varina Westcott
I heard a boy’s voice downstairs and tore out into the hall. Why greet Arthur in the solar? I’d hug him the moment he came in the shop door.
I thudded down the steps, but where was he? Where was Maud? I saw only a lad I did not know hovering near the door. A friend of Arthur’s? Had he fallen and been hurt and Maud had sent this boy for us? I pushed past Gil and rushed to the door.
“This is my shop. May I help you, boy?” I asked.
He said naught but thrust a folded, unsealed note in my hand and was off like the wind. Someone wanted an order to be picked up later, I thought. Or a note from the palace perhaps?
While Gil muttered under his breath about Maud and Arthur dawdling in the shops when she was needed here, I stood in the window light and opened the note and read:
We must hope another Arthur does not disappear from the face of the earth. That will be so unless you meet me where we met before by your other son’s grave in one hour. Tell no one besides Gil and Maud, especially that guard, and be there absolutely alone.
It was not signed, but it did not have to be. I was so distraught that, for a moment, I could not fathom the meaning of the words. Then it came to me cold and clear. Someone—I would bet everything I held dear that it was Lovell—was going to murder my son if I didn’t meet him in an hour. No, no, this must be a nightmare caused by the loss of Prince Arthur. I would wake up. Maud had gone to fetch my boy from school. If I followed these directions, I would be facing this phantom alone. Could any of this be true?
My hands shook so hard that the paper rattled, and I pressed them together so Gil would not notice. “A problem?” he asked from the doorway on his way out toward the workroom and courtyard.
I could not bear to tell him now. I had to think clearly. “Just a disgruntled customer. I’ll go out shortly and settle this.”
How quickly I had made that up. Why was I not lying flat, screaming, beating my fists on the floor? Had I changed so much then, some from my own trials, some from watching Nick? Had I learned to do what I must, at any cost? I could only pray this was some terrible trick intended to keep me in line, but I feared it was true. Yet if Arthur had been taken, where was Maud?
My desperate hope that this was a hoax was shattered when Maud came in the shop door alone, weeping and panicked. Jamie had gone out to the stables, and Gil wasn’t here. No Nick, no chance to catch him now. I must take care of this alone, save my boy above all else. I knew the worst of it before Maud opened her mouth.
“It’s Arthur!” she shrieked. “He’s gone! Varina, we started to walk home, but a woman came up to talk to me about a big order of candles, and when I turned, he was gone. I should have been holding his hand, but he said he wasn’t little anymore. Then the woman disappeared too. I—I couldn’t find him, but I don’t think he ran off with friends. He wouldn’t do that to us; he wouldn’t—so I dashed home, thinking he’d be here, wanting to show me he could come home alone.”
“He didn’t. Lock the door, because we have to go tell Gil what’s happened.”
“But—but what’s happened? We have to look for Arthur!”
“Lock the door, I said, and then both you and Gil will have to help me by doing nothing.”
We sat, all three of us, huddled over the note. Maud rocked back and forth, moaning, blaming herself. I was in agony that it had come to this. Lovell had outfoxed the king
and Nick: He was in London abducting my boy, not at Minster Lovell. What did he want of me? What had he evidently wanted from the first? I saw clearly that I must do as the note said: handle my meeting with him alone, absolutely alone.
“I swear I’ve seen the woman somewhere before, but I can’t place her,” Maud said for the tenth time, grinding the heels of her hands into her red eyes.
“You must calm yourself and try to remember,” I urged her. My voice was deadly calm, but I was seething inside. We weren’t dealing with someone who wanted ransom for my boy, but rather someone who wanted information or my help in something evil; saints preserve me, for I would do anything to save my son.
“Could she be an infrequent customer?” Gil asked. “Someone from church?”
Frowning, Maud shook her head.
“How was she dressed?” I asked.
“Brown garb, neither fine nor poor. She was pretty, her reddish hair covered by a hood and veil. She was rouged and had a rather long nose, blue eyes, I think—yes, I’m sure. A cloak clasped around her, despite the warm day. She said she wanted to place a huge order,” she repeated again, her voice almost a wail. “I turned my back just for a moment—the area was not crowded then—and…and he vanished.”
I did not tell either of them that I had received a note telling me to meet Arthur’s abductor alone—now, in a mere quarter of an hour. I had no choice but to go to the St. Mary Abchurch cemetery where my other son lay. How terrible, how clever that Lovell, who had accosted me at that site months ago, would make me meet him there again. I did not think for one moment he would have Arthur with him. If I crossed the abductor—the demon who did not think a thing of murdering boys, even royal ones—I feared I’d never see Arthur again. How frightened he must be. But not as much, I prayed, as I was.
Now I fully understood the queen’s passion to keep any remembrance of her dead children about her, how her loss of her son Arthur had stunned and shattered her. I pictured my Arthur laughing at Christmas, stuffing his mouth with candied plums. He’d been so proud when he’d shown me how he’d learned to use an abacus. I heard his reedy voice telling me all he had done in school each day. I felt the lack of him in my arms, regretted the times I’d told him to pipe down or not twirl his top across the dining table. I was a horrid mother to have left him to go to Wales, however much I’d been commanded to do so, however much I had loved to be with Nick.
The words of the note I’d read privily without showing Maud or Gil—especially not Jamie, who was out in the stables—had read, We must hope another Arthur does not disappear from the face of the earth. Disappear from the face of the earth to be buried…like the prince whom Lord Lovell had poisoned…dead and buried, like my little Edmund. If I lost Arthur too, I myself might as well disappear from the face of the earth!
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-THIRD
Ilied to Maud and Gil, saying I was going to Christopher for advice—without Jamie, since Jamie had struck him. I also said they were to wait in the shop lest a ransom note be delivered. I was surprised they believed that I would go to Christopher, but they knew I was desperate. At least there was no chance of my old suitor coming into the shop, for since yuletide he had been avoiding me like that plague. I also made Gil and Maud promise they would not tell Jamie, and I would be back soon.
But as I made ready to set out for the graveyard, Maud seized my hands in her cold ones. “Sister, dearest Varina, forgive me! You have ever been kind and good. I was jealous—resentful—all these years. You are so skilled with the wax, like Father, and so pretty. Then with children I so long for. But I love Arthur too. I would not harm him, and now I thank you for not blaming me when it was all my fault—”
“No—mine too. I didn’t realize the depth of evil, that it could strike my son also.”
I hugged her to me hard. We were both shaking. I rued the fact that our precious conciliation was marred by this tragedy. “I swear I’ll get him back, Maud. I must go now. Keep a stout heart for me and Arthur, and do not tell Jamie where I’ve gone, even if he rants and raves.”
I slipped out the front door with a wax-carving knife hidden up my sleeve. After pretending to start out for Christopher’s, I turned my steps toward the graveyard where I had met the demon Lovell before, and no doubt not by chance.
Though the day was mild and sunny, the familiar shops and houses seemed to frown down on me, casting shadows. People, even ones I knew, passed in a blur. Quickly moving clouds overhead made it look as if the church tower would topple on me. My horror of small, closed places leaned hard on my heart again.
The gate squeaked as I entered. The breeze rustled trembling leaves and graveyard grass. I scanned the area and saw no one. Was I early? Was he watching to be sure I came alone? He could be behind one of the tall, thick yews hunched over as if guarding the mossy stones. I walked quickly to Edmund’s grave, hoping to have a few moments of prayer to calm myself, whispering, “Oh, Lord Jesus and our holy Virgin, protect my boy, and guide me to get him back. Oh, Lord Jesus and our holy—”
From behind a large stone monument, a cloaked man emerged as if rising from a tomb. I gaped at him as he came closer. Yes, it was the one who had spoken to me here before, this time with his hood thrown back. But I wasn’t sure he was the one who had chased me through the bog at Ludlow, because he seemed older now, even a bit stooped, with the hint of a limp. Was that put on, or had he been injured? His silver eyebrows were sleek and angular over dark eyes that seemed to burn from within. A grizzled, shovel-shaped beard cupped his long face, but it could be fake facial hair. So this was the man of many faces, the ghost who came and went at will.
“You shall be of help,” he said without greeting. Yes, that raspy voice, assured, even commanding. The man in the crypt. And the slant of his shoulders, the turn of his head—yes, the man in the bog! Firenze’s killer. Sim’s too. I must not accuse him of the murders, or of even stalking me before. I had to play along. He had my Arthur!
He went on. “I regret taking such extreme measures to be certain you would assist me, but this is a matter of utmost import.”
“To me it is. I want my son back first, and then we can bargain.”
“I knew you were strong. Your lad is too, right now, at least, so you will do as I say.”
Though smooth and calm in words and manner, this man was a fiend from the pit of hell, the enemy of the Tudors, ravenous to harm their heir Henry and destroy their future.
“Do you recall,” he said, “that when we met here before, I thanked you for your future assistance? The future is now, so let me explain. I have learned that you have easy access to our queen, going to her apartments through a back way. And I believe few in the palace—perhaps even the king, eh?—know of your longtime free access to her.
“Fear not for her safety,” he continued, as if he’d read my mind. “I wish to help her, but not only would she not see me if I asked for an audience, but it would endanger me.”
“I could take her a note in exchange for the return of my son. I cannot do aught else,” I insisted. Did he actually think I would trust him not to harm the queen?
“Are you so foolish to refuse me or order me about? God as my witness, I only wish to tell the queen in person who really murdered her brothers in the Tower.”
I gasped. “But Tyrell—”
He gave a sharp laugh that chilled me. “Heed me carefully, Mistress Varina Westcott, for I have your son tucked away in a distant place only I know well, all safe and sound—for now.”
My mind raced. Did he know Nick and I had discovered he had poisoned Prince Arthur? And that Nick would soon be looking for him at Minster Lovell? Though the wretch stood before me now, could he have had Arthur sent to Minster Lovell? A distant, safe, and sound place only he knew well, he’d just said. If his boyhood castle, which he must know inside and out, felt safe to Lovell, and he appeared and disappeared in that area, could he not make my boy disappear there too?
I told him, “Although I have access to the queen’s ch
ambers, I must pass by guards. They would never let me take someone with me whom they did not know.”
“You will tell them I am the new artist to replace Signor Roberto Firenze, the one she favored to paint your pretty wax effigies. Sadly, she, like you, suffered his loss sorely.”
He knew about my waxwork and Firenze’s painting of them! He was gloating over Firenze’s death! My voice broke as I fought for control. “Did you know the artist?” I dared to ask.
“Indeed, he once did a portrait of a king for me—the king who should be on England’s throne even now.”
Signor Firenze had painted King Richard for this obsessed loyalist? Then perhaps my artist friend had not panicked or suspected danger when Lovell first approached him in the crypt. Or perhaps Firenze had refused to help him gain access to the queen, and so…he had killed him. For two reasons now—my son’s safety and my own—I must at least pretend to help this blackguard.
To make everything worse, there must be a palace informant who had told him about what Firenze and I did for the queen and how I had access to her. Surely Firenze had not given that away. Nor Nick. Sibil?
I nearly fell to my knees at that thought: The woman Maud had described, who had distracted her so that someone could take Arthur, could have been Sibil! That man whom Nick said Sibil was madly in love with, Nigel something, had once been a Tudor enemy. Could he be an enemy yet, and Sibil too? And in league with Lovell?
I pressed my arms tight to my midriff and felt the carving knife I’d secreted there, but I dared not use it. I couldn’t disobey or betray this man. I could only say, “Yes, I can try to pass you off as a new artist. But I must go to the queen to arrange that, so there will be no snags when we try to enter. If I go to see her yet this afternoon, you must trust that I am not giving anything away to her.”
“Arrange it for me then, and I shall contact you soon to learn the timing.”
“We can meet back here to discuss it.”
