The Last Boleyn(93)

“But you say his horse is here yet, Stephen?”

“Aye, milady. He threatened to go to the priory at Wilton, but he has not done so, unless he thieved a horse. I shall find him along the river perhaps, though it is not like him. But who can he find to talk to around here, since the queen’s household be at Beaulieu and the king’s at Eltham?” He nodded his sandy head and backed through the door with his cap in his hands.

He probably intended to punish her by staying elsewhere, she thought. He need not. She regretted her words and actions already, but that could not change the truth. Perhaps if she were not here as though she were awaiting him, he would come back sooner. “Let’s sit out by the fountain for a bit, Nancy.”

“But it be turned off now. Remember? Anyhow, my lady, we might get overheated and you know that is one sign. There be plenty of myrtle and rose leaves in the drawers, but we have no sapphires to stem the start of it if the curse should come here.”

“I know, Nance. But we are far into July and a good stretch from pesty London. I forgot the fountain is off. We shall just sit in the shade. Maybe there is a tiny breeze off the river as yesterday.”

“At least the river flows toward London and not from it to bring the stench of death. Hundreds are dyin’ the drovers say.”

They had only begun their slow stroll under the trimmed yews when Stephen’s voice floated to them in the still, stifling air. Already she knew the day was much too warm, and they would have to turn back.

“It’s Stephen, lady, yellin’ and wavin’ at us.” They both squinted down the lane of sunsplotched yews.

“Come on, Nance. He wants us, yet does not come to fetch us. I warrant my lord has come back in a huff.”

The closer they got to Stephen, the more disturbed Mary became, and she picked up her skirts and ran even though she felt the beads of sweat begin to trickle down her temples and between her breasts. When they had nearly reached him, he turned and loped ahead throwing the words back over his shoulder.

“The lord, Lady Mary. He got overheated, I think. But the thing is, lady,” he blocked her as she reached for the latchkey to their chamber, “though he be sweating, he has the shakes bad, too.”

Mary’s heart lurched. “Dear God! No!” Nancy drew back with a little gasp. Mary quickly shoved the door open as if to push away her growing dread.

Will sat slumped, curled over the table drinking wine in sips. His ragged breathing filled the quiet room. He stared at her almost unseeing, his eyes glazed.

So great a change in such a little time, she thought, panicked. It cannot be. “Will? Do you have a bit of a fever? Please, Will, get in bed, and I will sponge your face. A little sleep and all will be well. You are overtired, and your anger has exhausted you.” She touched his arms to help him rise. His shirt was sopping wet and stuck tight to his clammy body.

“I am not going to bed. I need rest—here—and some cooled wine, not this hot stuff. Tell Stephen to see to it in the cellars.”

Stephen snatched the pitcher and was gone before Mary even looked up at him.

“Yes, my temper got the best of me,” he got out between pants for breath. “I should have gone to Wilton. The thing is, I have stomach pain too, and it would be too hard to ride with it. I shall go to Wilton tomorrow.” He clenched his fists around the empty goblet and groaned. “I may ride to see our old home at Durham again. I would like to see Durham.”

Mary wrang out a cloth in the washbasin and sent Nancy to fetch fresher water. “Tell no one anything,” she whispered to the frightened girl and squeezed her arm in warning.

“Is it the sweat indeed, lady?” she mouthed.

“I pray God it is not. Go on and hurry!”

“Will, come on. We must get you to bed where we can care for you so this, this fever, will pass.”

“Yes.” He lifted his tousled head weakly from his hands. “Yes. I feel suddenly exhausted. I have worked too hard for His Grace. But, Mary, you must not let me sleep. People who sleep never wake up again when they have the sweat. Only this is not, cannot, be the sweat. I have not been in a city in weeks.”

He leaned on her and his weight was tremendous. How foolish she had been to send Stephen and Nancy on errands. She staggered toward the bed nearly dragging him, and they fell on it together. She sat only to rise immediately, but he grabbed her wrist.

“Just because you love him, Mary, you will not let me die?” His wide eyes tried to focus on her face but they wandered and everything swam before him.

“You will not die, my husband. I will not let you die.” But his head had already dropped back on the pillow and he panted in short gasps with his mouth open.

She swung his feet up onto the bed and covered him with a thick blanket from the chest. She stood frozen for a moment. Her mind raced, pouring over the advice and remedies she had heard discussed in whispers these past years. This was impossible. It could not be happening to Will.

She pulled her fur robe from the storage chest and scattered crushed lavender leaves, in which it was entombed for summer storage, all over the floor. The person must be made to sweat the poisons out, to sweat profusely, she remembered. Where were those servants?

With deadly outward calm she began to bathe the sticky sweat off his face. Dearest God, it was the sweat indeed, for he smelled of old closed-up rooms. That was one sure sign, Lady Weston had said, the smell of old closed-up rooms, like death.