Mistress of Mourning

by Karen Harper

  I broke into sobs, my face in my hands. He pulled me to him, his trembling arms wrapped around my shaking shoulders.

  “Yes, believe me, my dearest,” he whispered, “I do understand your grief and guilt. By all that’s holy, I swear I do!”

  Mistress Varina Westcott

  Despite everyone staring, I was in Nick’s arms, telling about Arthur’s abduction, Sibil’s possible treachery, Lovell’s orders to me. I admitted I had fled London under the cloak of darkness, so Lovell or his spies would not know I had come here.

  “Damn Lovell! Sibil too,” Nick muttered as he steered me into the manor house itself. Following behind, Finn and Jamie gave us a little distance as we crossed the great hall and ascended a staircase. “But what made you think Lovell would hide Arthur here?” he asked.

  “From some things he let slip. Even if the king’s uncle once owned the manor, Lovell would want to be here—wouldn’t he? He was reared here. It was his family’s home for centuries. He must know it well, the perfect place for him to hide a boy.”

  “For the last two days Finn and I and two others—all king’s men—have searched each inch of this place. But we’ll look again now for a boy as well as for the man himself. I have no doubt he has been in London of late, but once he sees you’ve fled, he might reappear here—come back, I mean. But listen now. There’s only a skeleton staff, since the king has not given this place to someone else since his uncle died. Rest here in my chamber, and I’ll send someone up with food,” he said as he opened a door to a large room that must have been the master’s suite, perhaps Lovell’s once. If so, I would rather have slept in the stables, but I nodded and obeyed, as Nick shouted, “Men, to me!”

  “I’m going to help search too!” I called after him as he rushed into the hall. “And do you know,” I went on, as he turned back to me, “that there was once a small gate for escapes during a siege somewhere here—the priest said so.”

  “I know where it is, but it’s bricked up. The red brick stands out in the white stone on the side by the river.”

  “And Lovell mentioned some sort of tomb. Could he be hiding or have hidden Arthur in a church or cemetery?”

  “We’ve searched both—the entire area—but I’ll look again.”

  “I’ll help! I want to help!”

  He nodded, then huddled with the men. Two of them drew swords. It comforted me to see that they were acting quickly. I must find someone to send for Hal, who was holding our horses near the woods, so he could help search too. I prayed that if Lovell was still alive, he’d keep Arthur alive too, even if only for a bargaining chip.

  In teams of two persons, we searched until nightfall and then by torch and lantern. We all met briefly in the great hall each time the church bells tolled an hour. Even in the maze of rooms, the pealing bell was clear, since the church stood cheek by jowl with the manor’s outside wall. How I wished we had some Westcott candles, large ones. Each empty bedroom, storeroom, pantry, larder, and garderobe we searched in futility made me more frenzied.

  I could hear my heart pounding each time I opened another door of a dark, dusty room or peered into a cobwebbed cubbyhole in the old church. No tombs there seemed to have doorways or entries. I felt continually sick to my stomach. What if I never knew what had become of my boy? Would that be worse than closing a coffin on him as I had on sweet little Edmund? To lose one son and then another—again I felt close to the queen, almost as if she were with me.

  “Tomorrow at first light, we’ll search the town and surrounding farms again,” Nick had promised about ten of the clock before I lay down to rest. “It seems to me that Lovell’s gone to acting alone, but we can’t be sure, and some lackey could be hiding Arthur.”

  Sometime before the midnight bell tolled the new day, I took Jamie with me and went to find Nick and Finn. They had gone to search in the vaulted cellars again, full of dusty hogshead casks and empty racks for wine. Our torches made the shadows jump at us, and our voices echoed as we called Nick’s and Finn’s names.

  “Find something?” Nick asked as he answered and we approached them.

  “Can’t we search the church again?” I asked. “It was here when Lovell was growing up, even if Father Mark was not. Since Lovell said Arthur might be buried in a very special tomb, there must be a hidden cellar or some access underground.”

  “Varina, you know we went through the church, tower to floor, but we’ll search again in the vault. The small crypt there is sealed. But considering how our prey has operated before, it’s worth a try, even at this hour, at prying it open. You’ve got to get some sleep. Go back to your room and stay there with Jamie outside your door. Finn and I will roust out Father Mark and take a look at the crypt, which is no doubt full of dead Lovells.”

  “As this one should be,” Finn muttered.

  Snatching at that glimmer of hope—a new place where they had not looked before—and absolutely exhausted, I went back to the master’s suite Nick had made his own. I lit four candles to push back the dark. I refused to lie down until he returned with his report—oh, if only he could find Arthur there!

  I sat slumped over the table with my head on my crossed arms, trying not to grieve, trying to stay awake, thinking of that day we closed the coffin lid on my second son and how I’d feared closed places since then. The thought of a dark crypt, smaller than the vast black one at St. Paul’s, pressed in on me. But I would gladly search it for my son.…However long I had gone without sleep, I should have gone with them.…Please, dear Lord, don’t let my Arthur be closed in some dark place where he is afraid.…Please, I beg you, send my love to him; save him.…

  I must have slept. I thought I heard something bumping in the hall. Footsteps? Nick must be back. I rushed to the door and opened it. The hall torch had guttered out, so I went back for two candles, though a torch farther down the hall burned low. Jamie was not in sight, only the bench he’d dragged there earlier to sit outside my room.

  “Jamie?” I called, trembling at the memory of losing my guard Sim at the far end of the bog. “Jamie! Nick!”

  At first I thought I heard a squeak or a strange echo of my own shrill cry. Or was I dreaming? For at the end of the dimly lit corridor, a boy in a white shirt gestured to me, calling, “Mother…Mother…”

  I gasped and squinted to see better. What it a ghost or a trick of my eyes and ears? Perhaps I was still asleep. For certain, a boy’s form and face, but my boy? As it beckoned, I heard again, “Mother…Mother…” and was certain it was Arthur.

  Whether the half-lit image of my son was the work of angel or devil—or Lovell—in that blinding moment I knew not and cared not. I dropped the two candlesticks but, with a candle in each hand, raced down the long, dark hall so fast that molten wax puddled by the wicks burned my wrists and spattered onto the wooden floor. When Nick returned, perhaps he would see that and know which way I had gone. And where was Jamie?

  As I ran, one candle flamed brighter and one flickered out. Just before I reached the end of the corridor—it looked like my Arthur; it must be!—the boy was seized nearly off his feet and disappeared. So I was not heading to a dead end of the hall, but to a turn.

  I pressed the candle wicks together to have two lights and let more wax fall to the floor. Yes, I glimpsed a tall, dark figure and the flash of the lad’s white shirt when I peered around the dim corner. Arthur! It must really be my Arthur!

  “Arthur? Arthur!”

  The man was tall. He lifted the now silent boy over one shoulder, so he held the backs of his legs and his head dangled. He turned away.

  “Stop, Lord Lovell!” I shouted. “I will bargain for him! I knew you’d come back here. I would have done the same. Loose him, and I’ll help you escape.”

  “I have escaped—again. I learned to swim in the river outside years ago, how to move under the surface, hold my breath. The king’s men looked for me after Stoke, but I escaped partly underwater. As for Minster Lovell Hall—my hall—I know each nook and cranny here. And blow that
damned candle out!”

  I did as he said, making certain I got more wax on the floor. It was not as dark here as I thought. I fancied I saw a crack of light—a doorway behind Lovell where there seemed to be no door.

  “Mother, Moth—”

  “Hush, boy!” Lovell said, and gave Arthur such a hard bounce I heard the air whoosh out of him.

  “Don’t hurt him! It’s all right, my Arthur,” I said in a soothing voice, edging closer. “This man is going to let you go.”

  “Come with me then,” Lovell said. “I must know some things; then I’ll set you both free.”

  I did not believe him, but I saw no other way. Perhaps I could find a ploy to stop him, to free Arthur, at least.

  “Yes, of course,” I told him. “Whatever you say.”

  I knew Arthur’s life meant nothing to him. As desperate as I was to leave a trail of wax, now with my candles out, all I could do was pick at them with my fingernails and drop the pieces of cold wax upon the floor each time I moved.

  “Come then,” he repeated, and pushed at a wooden wall panel that slid inward to reveal a dimly lit, narrow opening. He put Arthur down. The child grappled himself to me, arms tight around my waist, smothering his face against my belly. I clutched him against me. “Oh, my boy!”

  Lovell pulled me forward with Arthur, who was still clinging to me. I dropped one candle but held the other, and held on to Arthur. Before I could right myself or fight back, Lovell yanked Arthur from my arms and dragged me by the neck of my man’s shirt toward the door, then shoved Arthur after me.

  I was afraid that if I screamed, he would harm my son. To my amazement, Arthur kept quiet too. If I could pull him after me, could we flee back down the corridor? Nick or someone must come soon.

  I did not fight Lovell but picked frantically at the single candle I still had, dropping the pieces behind me as he pushed me into the doorway and pointed down a flight of dusty, narrow stairs. I heard him close the door after himself. I went first. Lovell dragged Arthur behind us.

  Once, twice, I scraped the base of my candle along the rough wooden wall. That time I had descended the stairs into the meeting room of the secret society of the Guild of the Holy Name of Jesus flashed through my mind. I’d expected to find Signor Firenze there, still painting, but he’d been dragged into the crypt and murdered by this man.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Lovell shoved me against a musty stone wall and thrust Arthur against me. We clutched each other. Our captor produced a large dagger and said, “Not a sound, or it’s over. Do you understand, Mistress Westcott?”

  “More and more. Lead on.”

  “You first, that way,” he said, pointing with the blade. Ahead I saw a dim, distant light. Did this place have a spider’s web of hidden passages? The weight of the castle, of the world, seemed to be collapsing on me, and it was all I could do to keep from screaming.

  Gripping Arthur’s hand, I led the way. I was sweating and gasping to breathe, but I could tell the air was getting colder, danker. It was as if we had descended into a narrow, black tomb, and my fear of enclosed places terrified me as much as did this man. Had Nick returned from searching the sealed crypt yet, and had he found Hal and me missing? Would he think we had gone out searching somewhere again, or would he look for us and find the wax trail I had left him?

  “Halt here!” Lovell whispered, then pressed Arthur between us to reach ahead of me and shove and kick at another panel, this one outward. It was heavy, a thick and rough substance—bricks? With my thumbnail of my free hand, I tried to pick at the wax of my single, shrinking candle, then ran its waxen base along the rough brick to leave a mark. I tried to do it at the level of my hips, not looking down, hoping he would not notice.

  As Lovell shoved me through the opening, I sucked in fresh air. Somehow we were outside! I saw scudding clouds and stars above. Did I hear the river? If only Arthur and I could flee to freedom now!

  “In here,” Lovell said, and as if he’d heard my panicked thoughts, he held the dagger to Arthur’s throat. I gasped but my boy hardly blinked. Somehow Lovell shoved at the brick wall, which rotated inward—another hidden door. Had we just emerged from the so-called narrow way the priest had mentioned, the old escape tunnel? Nick had said he’d examined it, but it would have looked solid, and he’d hardly go along pushing at each part of it.

  “Where are we?” I asked as Lovell swung closed the brick door behind us. Lit by a single lantern, it was a small room roughly hewn from stone with one brick wall. I reckoned it measured six feet by six, with a ceiling that nearly scraped Lovell’s head. It was silent and stale in here. A small table with paper and writing utensils, one chair, a bench, and a chamber pot filled it. Several small kegs were stacked in the corner. I saw a straw pallet on the floor.

  “My sweet, simple sanctuary, oft for days at a time,” he said. “Sit and listen to me carefully. Boy, back to your cot.”

  It horrified me how quickly Arthur obeyed him. What had he done to him, or had he simply told him that he would kill me—kill us both—if he disobeyed? I was certain now, since he was showing us his lair, that he intended exactly that. If I could get his knife and stab him—but I had no illusions I could wrestle it from him.

  “I’m listening,” I said as he leaned back against the brick wall we had come through. I could not see where the door had been, or a handle to move it in or out.

  Our captor drew himself up to his full height, keeping a tight hold on the knife. “I am an honorable man,” he told me, “who has been forced to live in dishonorable times because a conniving cur with no rightful claim to the throne clawed and cheated his way to it. Henry Tudor as good as murdered my liege, Richard of York, the true king, and others.”

  “Killed in battle, you mean? At Bosworth Field and Stoke?”

  “Keep quiet, I said. I only want you to know that what I do, I must do to stop the spread of Tudor poison. And so it was most fitting that Henry Tudor’s whelp, Prince Arthur, was dispatched that way.”

  Was there no means by which to stop this murderer before he harmed us? My only hope was that he was telling me this so that I could justify him to the king or queen. But I had the sickest feeling he was going to use that dagger. Necks—he had always killed people by breaking or shooting their necks, and he had already held that weapon to Arthur’s.

  Despite his admonition to keep quiet, I blurted, “I will do whatever you say to help your cause and then—”

  “I knew you were a woman who could not follow orders. Yet how I would have valued one like you on my side, at my side, just like poor Sibil Wynn! For once, I almost regret what I have been driven to—what I must do. But everyone is merely a means to my end, a prince, an old herb woman…anything to cover my path and hurt the hateful Tudors, even rob them of their kin and allies.”

  “You’d best flee directly back to France. There is a hue and cry out for you, so—”

  “Silence, woman! I am not to blame for any of this! I did not kill the princes in the Tower, and those who did were following the devil’s orders. You have ruined your chance to help atone for that, but I have another way to gain access to the queen and her children—perhaps even the upstart king himself. Before I fled London, I heard she is breeding again, another heir to dispatch, eh? So I have found a woman who quite resembles you and, in the dusk or dark, that will have to do.”

  Before I could grasp his meaning or argue more, he huffed the lantern out. Blackness flew at me, enveloped me. I felt fresh air waft in, glimpsed Lovell’s silhouette against the stars outside—and then the brick wall slammed shut.

  I leaped to my feet and felt Arthur’s arms come hard around my legs in the utter blackness. Lovell had left us in this tomb to die, the very special tomb that he had told me my Arthur might be buried in.

  CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIFTH

  At first, I held Arthur in my lap, rocking him as if he were a baby, telling him how much I loved him, how I would get him home somehow. In this small, dark place, I was also trying to c
omfort myself.

  “He’s a mean man,” Arthur murmured more than once, but I had no time to learn how my boy had been treated. The air was growing increasingly stale.

  “We must find a way out of here,” I said, trying to sound calm when I wanted to scream. So closed in, so dark, these walls, the heavy ceiling pressing down, that man’s black hatred suffocating me, as indeed our lack of air in here might. And time was precious: Lovell had a plan to use someone who could pass for me to gain access to the royal family. And, God help me, I could almost believe that he could spirit himself back to London before anyone could catch him.

  “Arthur,” I said, “when you saw him go in and out, could you tell how he worked the door?”

  “Just pushed it, but I tried and tried before, when the men who brought me here left me untied. It didn’t work for me. I think it’s magic.”

  “Nonsense. It’s evil. We still must try. Nick Sutton is here at the manor with some of the king’s men. They will find us, or catch Lovell and make him tell where we are.”

  “He comes and goes, disappears like he can hide anywhere.”

  We stood and I felt my way to the brick wall that held the doorway, running my hands along it, pushing, then beating my fists on it in my frenzy. I broke out into a cold sweat, and tears coursed down my face, but at least Arthur could not see. I had to keep control for him, for a possible escape.

  “How long were you here?” I asked. “Were you brought right away when you were taken from Aunt Maud?”

  “A long ride, but straight to here. One man stayed with me, but when Mean Man came, I never saw the other one again.”

  “There must be a source of air here, or did someone open the door now and then to get fresh air from outside?”

  “No, it smells bad like this, but I think the air comes from behind those kegs, like a little breeze from there.”

  I felt my way along the rough-hewn walls until I found the curved corner where I’d seen several small kegs. Maybe we’d have something to drink to keep us alive until Nick found us or…or until we starved or I went stark, raving mad. But when I tried to move the kegs, they shifted easily, and I could tell they were all empty.