“See?” the boy asked. “The rain’s pounding them to pieces, but her footsteps—she drags one foot—come over from near her cot to right there, then nothing. She walks to this point and vanishes.”
“I see a single horse’s hooves in a parallel path,” Nick observed. “She must have walked to this point and then a horseman picked her up to ride, just as I did you a moment ago.”
“No,” I said before Rhys could answer. “The horse’s prints are too far from her—unless she…she leaped far.”
“Or flew,” Rhys put in.
“Was there anything amiss in her cot?” Nick asked.
“Not that I saw, milord. Well—’cept the Welsh banner the prince gave her was gone, maybe packed away for safekeeping.”
“Maybe someone came here to steal it,” I suggested with a shiver, as a rivulet of cold rain ran down my back despite my cape and hood. Would that someone then cut and deface that banner like the ones we found in the cromlech?
“Doubt a theft,” Rhys said. “Not someone from these parts. No one wants to cross Fey—she’s like a special thing here, like Glendower.”
We dismounted and searched Fey’s cot. The ashes in her fireplace were barely warm, but they could be left from yesterday. On her cluttered worktable Rhys found a half-bound bundle of dried rosemary, no doubt meant for him to take to his father’s herbal, but the battle banner was nowhere to be seen.
“Not that she kept things neat in here, but I see signs of a struggle,” Nick noted.
“I agree,” I said, pointing to a tipped basket that had spilled its leaves—which looked like dried meadow saffron.
“Wait!” I told Nick as he looked under her bed. I pulled out the packet of the herb Percival Garnock had given me, then compared my sample to the spilled herbs more closely. “It could be the same,” I whispered. “Rhys, do you know what is in this little basket she had?”
The boy leaned down, sniffing and squinting in the twilight of the cot. “Looks a bit like wild garlic but doesn’t smell like it. Sorry, but one reason Da might let me go is I’m not so good at the roots and leaves.”
Nick and I were hardly listening to him. “Maybe Fey was connected to the peddler,” I said. “She was the supplier, but was she in on why he wanted the herb? Maybe she’s fled because he came back to warn her we were looking around, getting too close.”
“But she must have figured that out from our first visit.”
“We didn’t know to ask the right questions then.”
“Despite the rain, let’s search the area a bit more,” Nick said, and led us outside.
The vultures that had flown before were back on the roof, this time with two more of their ilk. “Something’s wrong here,” Rhys said, stating the obvious as the big birds glowered at us and didn’t budge this time.
Nick walked over to look even closer at the footprints, which the rain was erasing slowly, since the oak partly sheltered them. I went with him while Rhys stood a bit back, holding our horses. Strange events or not around here, I thought, she didn’t just fly away. We were not reading these prints correctly. Witches flew, but that couldn’t be the answer.
I tipped my hood back and looked up, blinking into the raindrops. In the tree directly above us, hanging from a limb by a rope around her neck, was Fey’s drenched, dead body.
CHAPTER THE NINETEENTH
Ascream died in my throat. Nick came to stand behind me and looked up too, then grabbed my shoulders. I heard Rhys run over to us. “Hanged?” the boy cried. “Who dared do that?”
I could not look away from Fey. Her sodden gray gown clung to her thin form. Partly hidden by the foliage, hands bound behind her back, she looked as if she danced in the breeze. The rope by which she had been hoisted was tied to a limb just over our heads.
“Rhys, take Mistress Westcott’s horse and go fetch the sheriff in Ludlow,” Nick ordered. “Tell no one else. Bring him here. Now!”
As the boy obeyed, Nick said to me, “We’re going to leave her there for the sheriff to see. He can summon the earl or castle bailiff for this. I’ll be damned if I intend to be interrogated by Surrey again. The queen committed her burdens to us, not him. For safety’s sake, get into the cot.”
“I’m staying with you.”
“We’re both going inside and we’ll guard her from there. We could be targets out here—of a hangman who is also good with a bow and arrow. Let’s go,” he insisted, and steered me directly back into Fey’s cot, pulling his mount so it blocked the open doorway, though we could peer out above and below the horse’s body.
“You think he did it—the peddler?” I asked, my voice shaky.
“I don’t know what to think, but I’m working on it. I’ve had men search the entire circumference of the castle to see whether they could locate a secret way in—for someone to stand on the parapet and watch us bury the prince’s heart. A lot of castles and manors have old, hidden siege escapes. But they found nothing. I have inquiries out in nearby farms and villages with sketches of the fletching on the arrow from the bog, to see whether we can trace it to anyone so fanatically loyal to the Yorkist cause who would dare to kill the Tudor heir.”
“But you and I are supposed to be working together. I didn’t know any of that.”
“I’m telling you now. I feel helpless to be able only to keep those vultures away—the birds, I mean,” he added under his breath, and, holding his horse’s reins so he would not bolt, shouted at the lurking birds, which were now nesting in the oak tree. They flew again but only circled and came back.
“Nick, I realize I shouldn’t have gone out into the bog without you. I regret that Surrey happened to be there. But that doesn’t mean I don’t trust you or—”
“It means you might have been killed, and on my watch!”
“Oh—you’re worried that the queen would hold you responsible. Now I see. Your duty, your future is at stake, especially since you’re in the awkward and regrettable position of having told the king’s Lord High Treasurer, Surrey, that we’re betrothed.”
“I don’t want to hear such nonsense. If you want to argue, save it.”
He kept looking out the door instead of so much as glancing at me, which made me even angrier. “It’s true, isn’t it?” I demanded. “Well, I agree with you that our duty to Her Majesty is more important than some mock betrothal.”
Scowling, he glanced at me, then away again. “I swear, woman, you drive me mad. With frustration, with desire. Now keep quiet so we can hear more than the rain on the roof, lest someone tries to sneak up on us.”
Whispering now, I plunged on anyway. He had my ire up, and I was panicked at the way events were unfolding. Firenze and Sim murdered, and now this. I easily could have been the third death. “Nick, we’ve had two dreadful turns of events—two terrible deaths here in Wales. I understand that, but must you attack me?”
He turned and seized me by both my upper arms. “Attack you? I’m trying to keep you safe. And that motto on the cave wall—the way your pursuer disappeared without a trace when Surrey’s men searched—the poisoning of the prince—now this…Varina, what if Lord Lovell’s back, within my reach, planning harm, and I can’t find him, let alone stop him?”
It shook me even more to realize that Nick, my strong, stalwart Nick, was afraid. I nodded in understanding and lifted my hands to grip his wrists, even as he held me. It was as if we propped each other up in the midst of a sweeping storm, and I knew, at the very least, we were a solace to each other.
While Nick and I stood like silent statues but for when he shouted to keep the flesh-eating birds at bay, the sheriff rode in pell-mell with Rhys. Nick and the sheriff, a burly man with a black beard named Cargon Dylan, lowered old Fey to the ground. I went outside despite what Nick had said.
“I ne’er thought to see the end of her,” Sheriff Dylan said with a shake of his head and a loud sniff. Both men—Rhys too—kept looking around the clearing and into the trees. “I swear but it’d be like her to leap up again and dart o
ff into the forest.” He snatched off his cap, and, despite the weeping of the skies, Nick and Rhys did too. Not to be outdone, I threw back my hood. The rain felt good, washing me despite the chill of it.
“I’ll send for the crowner straightaway and look into who could have wanted to silence or hurt Fey,” the sheriff promised. “With the rain making the road nigh on impassable in places, the procession will be leaving on the morrow, so’s not to be late for the funeral at Worcester.”
Nick’s head snapped up. “Who says?” he demanded.
“Got word from the castle, sent from the earl. The whole village been told to turn out to line the road just after dawn. I’m to see to it, so looking into old Fey’s murder will have to wait. Hope that don’t give the one who did this time to flee.”
Nick’s and my gazes met over the man’s shoulder. I could just hear Nick thinking, The one who did this wants to do more than flee.
But more startling than the sheriff’s announcement was the fact that, just before he covered Fey’s face with one of her own herb bags, I was certain I saw not sopped silver hair but gold, a wrinkled face gone smooth, and a soft white throat instead of a creased one gone purple from a hangman’s rope.
When we returned to the castle, all was in chaos. Despite the rain, the Welsh and some English visitors still streamed over the drawbridge and into the castle to file past the casket in the chapel. People were packing; servants were running hither and yon. Despite the downpour, goods were being assembled in the courtyard. Nick saw me to my room, then, much dismayed that he had not been present when the earl ordered the departure moved up, went off to be certain everyone knew the order of the procession.
In my chamber I found Morgan folding my garments and putting them into saddle packs. Once again I ignored the food and ale waiting for me on a tray and went downstairs to find some sustenance from the common kitchen, though I could barely force food down. Fey’s face—her fate—tormented me. Again I had mentioned the illusion of her youth to Nick.
I went into the small chamber off the chapel where we had wrapped the prince’s body, to be certain that the tall, black funeral tapers and the extra waxen cloths were packed, wrapped in that same rain-repellent cloth. All was well, just as I had ordered and checked twice before. I stayed until the goods were carried off to be divided between saddle packs and a cart. Despite the suddenness of our looming departure and the wretched conditions outside, I was happy we were heading toward home.
I felt exhausted, but I was so tightly strung I knew I’d never sleep. Yet I needed my rest. Sadly, our leaving a few days early meant that the princess would be left here alone until she was well enough to travel to London. Was she yet too weak to bid farewell to her husband either publicly or privily? I prayed she had a strong contingent of guards left to protect her.
I thanked Morgan for her help, gave her several groats, with which she seemed pleased, and dismissed her early. I lay down in my riding gown so that I could be ready quickly when the cry came in the corridors for the funeral participants to awake. I would take my saddle packs downstairs and find Nick, for he’d said he might be up all night. I would also be certain I had the samples of meadow saffron from Percival Garnock and the one I had taken from Fey’s basket.…
Fey, swinging in the tree with the vultures after her, after us all…in the darkness of my room where I was fleeing a man chasing me…chasing me through the bog and shooting arrows at me so I couldn’t breathe…and poor Sim had his throat pierced, and that big beast had its heart cut out of him, just like the prince…
Now the darkness surrounding me was that of the crypt under the cathedral. I heard, echoing in my head, the voice of that man who wanted to kill me, who had killed Signor Firenze. He wanted to murder me among the tombs and monuments to the dead. His cape flapping, he pursued me through the cemetery where my son lay buried, not the queen’s son.…
I sat straight up in bed with a gasp. Trying to run, I had churned my sheets to waves. A dream, a nightmare, that was all! But…but did I at least now know who the man was who had chased me through the crypt that day? His voice…
I had to tell Nick! I scrambled barefoot across the cold stone floor to fumble with my door lock. I’d left a candle burning, but it had gutted out. Darkness. I had dreamed about the dark, about being closed in by death. If Nick was in his room—however late was it?—I had to tell him what I’d just recalled.
I swung open the door and took a step into the hall, only to trip over a body in the dimly lit corridor.
I fell to my knees with a gasp. Nick! It was Nick!
Queen Elizabeth of York
“My dear Elizabeth, of course people, servants and nobles alike, are going to talk,” the king said, trying to calm me when I explained what Sibil had told me. “Now that I’ve made the move to have James Tyrell examined, if he’s found guilty or is even implicated in your brothers’ demise, I’ll have it shouted to the rooftops. Though I was wary of so much as broaching that subject again, I’ve changed my mind. Justice must be served, and your continued torment over the royal lads’ disappearance must be eased. I believe Tyrell will tell my inquisitors all under duress.”
“Duress. You are going to have him tortured to make him talk?”
“I’ll have him threatened with it first, then order its use if I must. Considering what you’ve been urging me for weeks, I warrant that can hardly displease you.”
It was the first night we had lain abed together since we had heard of Arthur’s death, but neither of us was in the mood for anything but sharing what mutual strength we could muster. It had helped us to speak of our lost son and of our new-fledged hopes for our heir, Henry. The boy would not be invested as Prince of Wales until we had Catherine back from Ludlow and were certain she was not with child, for any issue of Arthur’s would keep Henry second in line for the throne. But I could not keep from asking about Tyrell, despite the king’s telling me earlier to leave it all to him.
I swallowed hard and said, “Torture displeases me, Henry, but I see its necessity. Tyrell defied you by refusing to come out of his stronghold, and he must be made to confess whether he harmed my brothers.”
Henry’s hand gripped mine under the covers, like talons rather than fingers, for he had suddenly lost weight. “You must let go of your guilt for your brothers’ loss, this…this witch hunt for who might have been involved, or it will make you bitter and ill, Elizabeth. Huge, sweeping events pay no heed to people’s hearts, not even if you are the most powerful people in the kingdom.”
“Or even, I suppose, if you are the lowest stable boy or kitchen turnspit and lose the ones you love.”
“Elizabeth the Good, they call you for your tender heart. Sleep well, my love, for we have difficult duties ahead to preserve Crown and kingdom. There—did that sound as if I were addressing my privy council or the entire Parliament?”
“It sounded like wisdom to my head and heart. At least we have the children and each other. At least, whatever else befalls, we have that.”
But as I lay stock-still so as not to disturb Henry, who soon fell into labored breathing, fear gnawed at me again. That I might never know what had happened to my dear brothers, for I must blame someone besides myself. That since I had lost three children now, I might lose young Henry and his sisters too. That someone still lurked in the darkness who wished us ill, but who waited to strike again.
Mistress Varina Westcott
Thank the Lord, Nick sat up from a pallet he’d evidently placed in the hall. He half caught me as I fell over him. He’d been sleeping here! I’d seen far too many dead bodies of late.
“What is it?” he demanded. “I’ve been here for hours.”
He was guarding my door! Sleeping on the hard, cold floor to protect me. How could I have mistrusted him, been angry with him? I wrapped my arms around his neck like a child affrighted by demons.
“I had a nightmare—but I think I know who chased me!” I blurted as he stood with me yet clinging to him and quickly shuff
led me inside my room, coming close behind.
“A nightmare of being in the bog?” he asked.
“And in the crypt at home. I don’t know whether what he told me was true, but I remember what he said.”
“What who said? Slow down and tell me all.”
“It was in the cemetery where my family is buried, and he was there—a strange man talked to me. But now I think he must have followed me on purpose. He may have been the same as the man with the cape on the castle parapet, maybe the man in the crypt and the bog, but why? What am I to him?”
“Varina, you’ve simply had a nightmare. You’re not making sense. Just because the man on the parapet and in the bog wore a cape—”
“No, it’s more than that. Yes, I had a dream, but I’m awake now.”
Nick dragged his thin straw pallet into the room, then closed and bolted the door behind us. He sat in one chair, but when I moved toward the other, he pulled me into his lap.
“Listen to me for a minute,” he said. “We must think logically, not emotionally now—both of us. As for the man in the bog, I’ve learned the fletching on the arrow was what they call antique, used by King Richard’s Yorkist loyalists hereabouts years ago, and that would have included Francis Lovell.”
“Now who is being emotional, speaking mayhap only from his deepest fears?”
“All right, I admit I’m obsessed with finding the whoreson traitor. Say on about your dream—your nightmare.”
“Perhaps when I was at rest my mind spoke logical truth to me. I remembered—I dreamed of an encounter, mayhap not by chance, in the graveyard of St. Mary Abchurch, not far from my house and shop.” I was speaking quietly, but my right temple lay against his shoulder, so he could hear me well. I felt secure in his arms, which made the telling easier. I had not felt real fear in that graveyard encounter, but my unconscious, dreaming mind must have recognized the danger or the evil that reeked from that man.