“Yes, sadly. Are you looking for a particular grave?”
“I am. I’m from the country, in town for the great events. I believe my cousin, last name of Stoker, is buried here. Have you seen such a grave? And permit me to introduce myself—Alan Bainton from near Colchester.”
“I’m sorry, but I know of no one by the name Stoker, even in this parish,” I said, deciding not to give him my name in return.
Alan Bainton was tall and thin, but he emanated a certain strength. His hood, pulled up against the wind that snatched at our garments, shadowed his face with its grizzled beard, but his aquiline nose and dark eyes were prominent. Though it was hard to tell because of his hood, he seemed to have silvery hair. I could not guess his age. As if his throat were sore, his voice was hoarse, almost a whisper, but strangely, it commanded my attention. He was attired in plain garb but for his shined boots, which flaunted spurs, though I had not seen that he had a horse when he entered.
“Perhaps it is my mistake to search here,” he said.
“The other parish church is St. Swithin’s, just down that way,” I told him, pointing. I needed to leave now. I should head for St. Paul’s.
“I will try that and inquire within of both priests,” he said. “I have a very ill cousin and will want to bury him with the other.”
He wore riding gloves, ones that also were too fine for the rest of his garb. He must have money then. “If you need votive candles or waxen shrouds, my family owns the Westcott Chandlery on Candlewick Street, at the sign with the blue candle. It’s an area of chandleries, but our sign has the blue color,” I repeated.
He made a stiff little bow. “I shall remember that, and I thank you for your present and future assistance.” The moment he turned to go out through the gate, I realized I had been holding my breath. Once he was in the street, I hurried out the gate and stretched my strides toward St. Paul’s. I looked back once to be sure he was heading in the direction I had indicated, but he had vanished.
Much ado at St. Paul’s Cathedral had already begun when I arrived. Outside, the huge, elevated wooden platform on which the marriage service itself would be solemnized had been completed, and common folk buzzed around its base like bees. Inside the cool cathedral, I hurried through the nave, where wooden seating had been erected for the nobility, then through the choir toward the high altar. Christopher and Robin Longfellow, head of the wax chandlers’ guild, seemed to be giving directions, as others I recognized scurried about. The best beeswax tapers we London chandleries had to offer were being set in or spiked to wood-and-iron supports called candle beams, and the pulley ropes that hoisted them aloft were being tested.
“Ah, Varina, my dearest,” Christopher called, and motioned me over. “If you could review the tapers in the candelabrum on both sides of the altar—be sure each stands erect—that would be a great help.”
“Our lady of the new coat of arms,” Robin welcomed me with a nod and a smile. He had looked as if he would kiss me in greeting, but with a glance at Christopher had obviously changed his mind. Our voices echoed even when we spoke in whispers here. “I’ve taken a peek at it—almost done, though I plan to petition for some sort of heraldic beasts to be added too, perhaps unicorns, appropriate with the maiden of the painting.”
“Did you not think that with the new ‘Truth Is Light’ motto,” I said, “the lady should be holding a candle or lantern?”
“If beholders of it don’t know it’s our company’s crest, that just shows their ignorance,” Robin said huffily, and Christopher nodded, though he also gave me a quick hand motion that said silently, Get busy!
So I did, scrutinizing and aligning the tall tapers near the high altar, where the royal couple would join hands and lives—and countries. Nick had told me that Prince Arthur spoke no Spanish and Princess Catherine no English, so until they learned each other’s languages, scholarly Latin would have to do between them. How many spouses, I mused, had problems really talking, even when the couple both spoke in the same tongue? Will and I had had our share of small disagreements, though he had almost always won in the end. Sometimes, when I was fretting over being scolded or overruled, I used to think to myself that I would choose my own husband next time, one who would heed my thoughts a bit more—and that was hardly Christopher Gage.
When I finished my assigned task, I stood against a pillar that joined another in a sweeping arch overhead, and felt very small. I planned to take my son and, with Gil and Maud, join the throngs in the street to catch a glimpse of the princess’s parade tomorrow and then to find a place from which to view the ceremony itself on Sunday.
“Varina,” Christopher said, appearing suddenly at my side, “since no one is below in the crypt, would you like to go down with me to see the chapel of the guild of the Holy Name of Jesus? I promised you might donate some of its votives, and I shall try to keep that promise—but only if you would make a certain promise to me.”
He took my hand, and I did not protest. I would much rather see the chapel than discuss the possibility of our union, and I should have paid better attention to his words. Granted, I saw clearly that marriage to this man would be the best business decision for my family, my shop, my own prestige. Yet my own stubbornness held me back.
He led me away from the altar where the choir joined the great nave, and, looking around, evidently to see that no one was watching, he unlocked a small wooden door with a rounded top. He took a lighted lantern from a huge hook just inside and, holding it aloft so both of us could see the narrow, curving steps, led the way down.
I was impressed and intrigued. Down, around we went. I prayed silently that we would not be going to a small chamber, for these stairway walls seemed to close in upon me. The stone stairs were worn to grooves by generations of feet, and someone had swept the staircase clear of dirt and cobwebs. At least it was not dark below, for wan light greeted us. Was a guard kept here?
Yet when the stairway narrowed even more, I hesitated and slowed.
“What is it?” he asked, turning around and looking up at me. The shadows on his face from his lantern made him look spectral.
“I just…Lately, small, enclosed places make me anxious.”
“Nonsense. The chapel itself is domed and the crypt beyond is vast. It has some ancient burials and monuments, but that usage had been halted of late. I am with you, Varina. There is naught to fear.”
I did so want to see this place where the prestigious religious guild connected to the Worshipful Guild of Wax Chandlers met. I had concocted a theory, however whimsical, that if I could provide votives for the altar here, even pray within its realms, the Lord might ease my mind over Edmund’s loss. Had He not already bestowed blessings upon me with my duties at the palace, memorializing lost children for our beloved queen?
Though the temperature was merely cool and seemed constant down here, my teeth chattered and my pulse pounded. Then, in a brighter burst of light—from four lanterns someone must keep burning—we stood in the chapel of the guild of the Holy Name of Jesus.
It was deserted, silent—as a tomb. But it boasted wall hangings, padded seats on eight wooden benches with kneelers, and a painted triptych behind the ornate altar with its golden crucifix. “Come,” Christopher said, and, putting his lantern down, he recaptured my hand and led me forward.
For a moment I felt lost in the beauty of it all, the stunning richness, yet the delicate details. Behind the crucifix, painted on the triptych, were soaring angels filling the sky over the humble manger in Bethlehem. Amazing angels with gilded wings and halos and shimmering skirts soared, holding harps and golden trumpets. Lost in my thoughts and prayers, I did not protest as Christopher pulled me down to kneel at the prie-dieu before the altar.
“In this holy place,” he said, his voice a whisper, “I ask you, Varina Waxman Westcott, for the fourth and last time if you will be my wife.”
That jolted me from the realms of reverie. He had the ruby ring off his finger again and was holding it up between u
s as if it were a sacrifice. The stone glinted bloodred in reflected light.
“Above us at the high altar,” he went on when I kept silent, “Prince Arthur will wed his Princess Catherine, and I likewise ask you to be a helpmeet to me. Will you not make that sacred vow here, before the Lord, before these angels you so like to carve—and so much will be given you?”
He meant this for the last time then, the proposal here. Was it truly now or never with him? If I turned him down, would he become my enemy?
“Varina, wear my ring, for I wear my heart on my sleeve for you.”
“This…this finality is so sudden. I admire and respect you, but cannot you give me more time?”
“Sudden? I’ve been on bended knee for months! Will’s been dead a year, and you know he would want the best for you, Arthur, and the Westcott Chandlery. And that means, whether we talk business or hearts, an alliance with me.”
“I know.”
“Do you? Yet you dither like the weakest of your sex, Eve wanting the fatal apple and the tree of knowledge when she should have trusted Adam and obeyed God.”
“And I would be obeying God to wed you?”
“Must you argue like a lawyer? St. Paul said ’tis best to marry, and ’tis the natural way of things.”
“If you truly want what is best for me, you will give me just a bit longer. To sort out some things.”
“Wed me and I will help you sort them out! You must stop clinging to your grief over Edmund, for I will give you sons to take his place, make you forget him.”
I thought I said, “Never!” but I must have said it only inwardly, for he plunged on.
“You need a man in your life to tell you which way to turn, lest you wander from the path.”
Wander from the path—the temptations of Eve and my weak sex. Yet I dared to dream, to desire someone else, to think I could control my own shop and perhaps just a bit of my own life.
“How much more time will you need to decide?” he asked, jamming the ruby ring back on his own finger. “And if I give you so much as one fortnight more, my patience, when I am not a patient man, must convince you how much I want you—esteem your favor—and is that not love?”
“Until yule,” I blurted. Surely, I thought, I would be nearly finished with the effigies then, and my time at the palace near the queen and with Nick would be over soon after. “Until yule, for winter is a good enough time for weddings.”
“Then we shall seal that bargain,” he said, reaching over to clasp my chin with his beringed left hand. He kissed me hard, heavily. It had once been comforting to be mastered thus by Will in our bed. Yet it dismayed me that I yet did not feel the sweeping rush—like the swoop and soar of those angels over our heads—as when Nick Sutton merely looked at me.
Ah, more fool I, I thought as I followed my disgruntled suitor up the twisting stairs to the real world again.
CHAPTER THE SIXTH
Singing and strumming a harp, the angel descended from above our heads. The cheering crowd hushed, and I could clearly hear Catherine of Aragon say something in Spanish. I stood on my tiptoes until my legs cramped to see her as her entourage paused in the street for a pageant, this one presented by the powerful grocers’ guild.
Ah, we had been wise to stand here waiting for two hours, even amidst the elbowing, jostling crowd. Arthur had begged to see the pageant with the red Welsh dragon and the painted canvas castle, but I had taken him there yesterday to see it being built, because I knew we’d never fight our way that far through the throngs today. The beast had even belched smoke while we had watched, so Arthur had been as enthralled with that as I was now with this flying angel.
As our future princess and queen had entered the city across London Bridge, we had heard the ovations swell. We, who knew her route, could tell exactly where she was, and word of that spread through the crowd packed in the narrow streets like herring in a barrel of brine. We heard her welcomes as she turned down Fenchurch Street to Cornhill, then to Cheapside, where, beneath the Eleanor Cross, she was formally welcomed by the lord mayor of London before proceeding toward St. Paul’s for her Thanksgiving service celebrating her safe delivery here in England. How I wished I could await her there, but only the governors of the Worshipful Guild of Wax Chandlers were in the cathedral today to light needed tapers.
Fortunately, the princess rode not in a litter but on a brightly bedecked mount, so we could all see her. Maud and I—Gil, too, who had Arthur on his shoulders—gaped at the fantastical costumes of the Infanta and her Spanish courtiers. Though, as we’d expected, their garb was adorned with exquisite goldsmith’s work and bold embroidery, their skirts and sleeves were huge and bell shaped, so foreign-looking to us English of the draped gowns and close-fitted sleeves. Then too, the princess wore a little hat with a flat crown and a wide brim, like a cardinal’s. She was short and seemed nearly swallowed by her costume.
I’d heard she always wore a veil in public, but not today, for she showed her pretty, plump face framed by two huge coils of hair covering her ears. More than once, folks in the crowd whispered that her fair complexion, red-gold hair, and blue eyes were the heritage of her royal English great-grandmother, a Plantagenet. It made us love her all the more. What a fine wife for our dear Prince of Wales!
Amidst the floating banners and tapestries hung from windows, the yet-suspended angel—it was a handsome blond lad—stopped strumming his parchment harp and gestured for silence. His bare feet must be cold dangling beneath his white woolen robe, because he sneezed. His metal halo went askew, yet stayed propped up by a wire from the bulky corset that must hold his wings—a white chicken feather floated past my face. Yet all that did not spoil the illusion for me. Was that what my Edmund would have looked like at that age?
The Spanish retinue, the English prelates, dignitaries, nobles, and knights accompanying the princess, even the raucous crowd, all hushed and looked up. Sadly, the angel spoke in Latin, which meant that few in the crowd, including me, could grasp his words, but I caught that he was portraying the angelic messenger Gabriel.
Fortunately, a fat priest behind us whispered to his companion, “The archangel has reminded the princess of Gabriel’s words to the Virgin Mary, ‘Blessed be the fruit of your womb.’ I translate that to mean that the princess’s chief duty is the procreation of children to stabilize the Tudor throne. Producing children, Gabriel explains, is why the Lord God has given mankind the capacity for ‘sensual lust and appetite.’”
“Oho!” the other man behind me said with a chuckle. “So these days the body’s passion is not only permissible but blessed? Now, why did I think lust was one of the seven deadly sins?”
“Only outside marriage, my son,” the priest said, but he was chortling too. Free wine had been flowing all day, and I warrant he’d had his share. “Most of my flock,” he went on, “might never come to that venerable estate of wedlock were it not for the gift of ‘sensual lust and appetite.’ Speaking of which, let’s away to sample more of that imported wine Their Majesties have provided, eh?”
Though I’d never deign to argue with a priest, I could challenge the so-called wisdom of those men. The desire to wed, in my opinion, could also be spurred by a passion to possess a fine second wax chandlery and a hardworking widow’s resources. I could see a widow wedding to give her children a good father. Or in Nick’s case, perhaps a wife of rank could help him regain his family’s property and prestige. Had he not considered that, instead of clinging to his lust for blood revenge against the traitor Lovell, who truly might live today only through rumors and bitter memories?
But I did not need to conjure up Nick Sutton the way I had my lost son. No, for there Nick was in the flesh, some distance away. Decked out in Tudor green and white, he sat mounted on a huge black destrier that knights rode in the lists. Amidst rising cheers as the entourage went past, I realized Nick was with those who would be jousting in the tournaments that would celebrate the wedding during the next three days. He sat among other strapping men, ho
lding a lance upright, from which fluttered a green banner with the stems of red and white roses entwined with that of a pomegranate.
I fancied I caught his eye in that sea of heads and hats between us. I sucked in such a sharp breath that Maud looked up at me and asked, “You all right then?”
I nodded, touched by her concern. Unable to break my distant gaze, I waved at Nick. He nodded straight at me; that is, if he saw me at all and it was not mere chance.
Queen Elizabeth of York
Despite the glorious event of our son’s marriage, the queen’s crown was heavy and cold upon my head that day. My purple velvet robe trimmed with ermine was welcome in the chill wind. Although we were outside, our seats at St. Paul’s Cathedral were far better than had been our perch in a second-story window of a haberdasher’s house in Cheapside from which we’d seen Catherine’s entry into London two days ago. The timber scaffold on which we now sat, twelve feet square and four feet high, covered with red baize, was adjacent to the north transept of the cathedral, so we could easily progress inside for the coming mass. Within, on wooden stands, awaited the nobles of our land and many from Spain.
Of course, my lord’s mother, Margaret Beaufort, Lady Stanley, sat on the king’s other side, severe, regal, as if she had as much right to oversee this ceremony and later festivities as I. Scolding myself for not being grateful we had most of our family here, I blinked back tears as the mid-November sun glinted off our Arthur’s white satin garments. Our eldest daughter, twelve-year-old Margaret, sitting directly behind her grandmother’s chair, and recently betrothed to King James IV of Scotland, was all eyes. Little Mary had been allowed to attend and had been schooled on sitting still, yet I heard the occasional creak of her chair behind me.
But all eyes were on our second son, Henry, too, for he’d seldom been seen in public. The boy looked older than his ten years, and the pride with which he held himself as he stood behind Arthur as his supporter made me realize again that Henry would never make a good priest, however avid he was at his studies. Indeed, Henry was quite full of himself today, for it was his duty, once these public rites were concluded, to escort our new Spanish daughter-in-law down the aisle of the vast cathedral to join her husband at the altar for a formal mass. Until both this ceremony and the mass were accomplished, the wedding would not be complete, and the festivities—three days full of feasts, dancing, and tournaments—could not begin.