The Last Boleyn(95)

The next day Nancy found a kind, old chaplain on the outskirts of Kingston to come the five miles to recite over the grave and give the last rites posthumously, as was allowed for any plague victim. They stood in a tiny circle around the sunken fresh grave two days after his death. Mary still felt it was unreal. She felt nothing but a vast, gnawing emptiness.

“Perhaps we can ask the king to have him moved later and buried at Durham Priory where he would have wanted. Perhaps we can get the money for a fine brass monument so he can lie with his forefathers there,” she had said over and over that day to Stephen or Nancy or the old priest.

Now he was dead three days and she insisted on lying on the raw ropes of the bed which had supported the mattress on which he had died. They had burned the mattress and robe and all the bedclothes in a bonfire in the courtyard. There was no one left to panic but the deserted servants of nobles who had fled and no one to comfort her but Stephen and Nancy. She wanted no one. She felt dead too, and she stared at the whitewashed ceiling that had seen him die for hours on the third day.

It seemed to her she had slept in the evening, but she could not tell where her waking and dreaming thoughts began or ended. Nancy was strewing fresh herbs on the floor she had scrubbed. How dare other people go on about their duties so calmly when poor Will had died and his God-given wife had failed him so miserably. She had turned against him all the months he had needed her understanding. She had reveled in her power over the king at her husband’s expense and, when she could not care for the king, she had turned to another. She had loved another man desperately with her whole heart and slept with him willingly, gladly, while her poor husband sought to earn his way back with his king. Earn his way back for himself and for their children too.

Mary thanked God again that Catherine was safe at Hever. Explaining to Catherine would be terrible, but their seven-year-old son was old enough to grasp the impact. She had sent word to Will’s poor Eleanor ensconced in her priory at Wilton. That will be the death of her dreams, Mary reasoned through the mist of her exhaustion.

She still wore her funeral clothes. She had no black, but she would get a mourning dress somewhere, even though they had no ready coins. She had a white dress though. In France widows wore white for a husband’s death. Perhaps some of the king’s gifts to her could be sold, or one of the parklands His Grace had granted Will on their marriage. She would just lie here forever doing penance for her sins until they all came back to court in the autumn and found her here, laid out just like this. Her heavy eyelids closed again.

Then a bird’s song somewhere outside the window pierced the darkness of her thoughts, and it came to her in a rush. She must go to Hever!

She sat up instantly and a terrible dizziness assailed her. She felt weak and panicked instantly. “But no, I do not sweat. I do not feel the slightest bit hot or have any stomach pain besides hunger,” she assured herself aloud.

“Lady, are you up? You feel better now? I have watched you sleep these many hours, and I knew you were still healthy,” Nancy said bending close and still holding the herbs in her gathered apron.

“Yes. Yes, I am better now, Nance. I must have food and drink and get my strength back now.”

“The Lord be praised,” the girl recited solemnly, crossing herself.

“And then we must walk in the gardens before nightfall and get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow, as soon as we can pack some things, you and Stephen and I are going home, Nance. Home to Hever.”

“We cannot travel the road clear to Hever, the three of us and you so obviously a fine lady. It is too unsafe and especially in plague times, lady. There be robbers all over the roads. Stephen will tell you so.”

“I cannot help that, Nancy. I will go in disguise if I must. We cannot hire anyone to ride with us as we used to. And we are going tomorrow, so you may tell Stephen while I eat. Go on!”

The tall girl opened her mouth as if to protest, but instead dumped her stuffed apron on the table and strode out the door.

“Yes. One hard day’s ride and we shall be at Hever. Home to mother and Catherine.” She rapidly began to eat a peach.



Mary slept much later than she had meant to, and was immediately angered that Nancy had let so much of the morning go by without waking her. “I do not intend to stay in some house or inn before we get there,” Mary scolded Nancy as she donned her brown riding dress. She had considered the idea of disguise, but had no men’s garments to fit, and she could not bear to put on any of Will’s things even if it did mean she could ride astride instead of the bothersome sidesaddle, for the long trek. Since they would travel without a single packhorse, no one would think they had anything to steal anyway.

She had told Stephen exactly where to bury her jewels in the rose garden. They were safely hidden under the turf in the trellised bower where she and Staff had found shelter from the rain, Will and His Grace so long ago. She bit her lip hard. All that was behind her now and she had much penance to do. The Carey cause might be dead with Will, but she had his children to raise and care for. She must put her own foolish longings aside.

The door opened behind her as she stuffed the two dresses she would take into the saddle sacks. “Did you bury them where I said, Stephen?” she inquired tautly, not turning. That was the last of the packing. They could go now and leave everything else behind.

“Mary.”

The voice was deep and soft and it terrified her. She spun wide-eyed to face William Stafford. Her new-won resolve fled from her face, and her strength went from her knees. He was beside her, pulling her gently to him, her face nestled against his black linen chest.