her voice soft but her words very distinct. "I thought for one moment my lord was come late to bed. I always told him to wake me. Meg, dear girl, I'm glad to see you well
and to have you back at my side." Her heavy gaze slowly swung to Elizabeth. "And my dearest Catherine has come home at last," she announced.
Elizabeth sucked in a sharp breath and glared sideways at Meg. She understood now why others resented and mistrusted the girl. Harry had even said she was not a local lass and had been in the household only a year. Yet Mary's deep affections for her seemed to rebuke them all. Even in her sleepy state she recognized a mere servant but not Elizabeth. She would tell Harry to cross-question this Meg more closely. If, as he said, the girl had tried some dosing tonics with Mary before she herself took-- or played sick--she could have had the chance to harm her.
"And my dear boy, whatever is that bandage for?" Mary Boleyn interrupted Elizabeth's agonizing. Now Harry looked surprised.
"But, my lady mother, do you not recall ..." he began, but his voice tapered off. They all stared down at Mary Boleyn.
She did not close her eyes, but they seemed to glaze over. She exhaled a deep breath and smiled and died.
Chapter The Fifth
The meager band of mourners felt the floor shudder when the four men shoved and dragged the big paving stone back into place. It rumbled, then thudded to silence on the central aisle of the small church. In the vault beneath it, Mary Boleyn, Lady Stafford, now slept with her husband for all eternity.
By the light of the four funeral torches, Meg stepped forward to strew dried rose petals on the carved double epitaph, which had borne Mary's name for many years. She sniffed hard and wiped her nose on her sleeve, while Lord Henry
Carey blew his on an embroidered handkerchief. Their eyes met before Meg stepped hastily back to her place in the circle of servants. He cleared his throat, then spoke so softly that they shuffled closer to hear his words.
"Needless to say," Lord Carey began, "I am grateful for your faithfulness and loyalty these years to my mother. Some of you have been with her almost from the beginning, when she came to live willingly in
exile and then when"--he cleared his throat again--"my family fell from royal favor and fortune. You have heard her written words read to each of you and have received the coins or plate she bequeathed to you so that you might begin new lives."
Meg shifted sideways to see him better around Glenda's broad shoulder. She knew several of the servants--maybe his lordship too-- resented her being included in the bequests. After only a year with the Lady Mary, she had eight gold crowns sewn in the hem of her inner petticoat. She wore every garment she owned, and not to keep out the chill night air. She had orders to leave Wivenhoe and head for the Princess Elizabeth. Though she was sore afeared of horses, she had bought one and was going to ride it clear to Hatfield House.
"I am hoping you will be allowed at least a fortnight in the manor house," Lord Carey went on, "before word of Lady Stafford's passing must be reported to the queen and someone comes here to claim it." His voice got bitter as rue when he said, "Like all Boleyn holdings, Wivenhoe is forfeit to the crown. ... King Henry secretly decreed only that the Lady Mary might have this for the rest of her life, so ..."
He didn't finish that thought. Some of the servants bowed their heads, some sniffled. Meg bit her lower lip hard and concentrated on that mere physical pain to try to stem the other.
"And lastly," his lordship said, his voice croaky as a frog's now, "should you be asked, I must beseech you to keep my presence here concealed as best you can. But should someone force you to it, say merely I came to comfort my lady mother on her deathbed and have gone back to the continent, parts unknown."
He began to turn away, then whirled back so his short black cape belled out. "And should
and to have you back at my side." Her heavy gaze slowly swung to Elizabeth. "And my dearest Catherine has come home at last," she announced.
Elizabeth sucked in a sharp breath and glared sideways at Meg. She understood now why others resented and mistrusted the girl. Harry had even said she was not a local lass and had been in the household only a year. Yet Mary's deep affections for her seemed to rebuke them all. Even in her sleepy state she recognized a mere servant but not Elizabeth. She would tell Harry to cross-question this Meg more closely. If, as he said, the girl had tried some dosing tonics with Mary before she herself took-- or played sick--she could have had the chance to harm her.
"And my dear boy, whatever is that bandage for?" Mary Boleyn interrupted Elizabeth's agonizing. Now Harry looked surprised.
"But, my lady mother, do you not recall ..." he began, but his voice tapered off. They all stared down at Mary Boleyn.
She did not close her eyes, but they seemed to glaze over. She exhaled a deep breath and smiled and died.
Chapter The Fifth
The meager band of mourners felt the floor shudder when the four men shoved and dragged the big paving stone back into place. It rumbled, then thudded to silence on the central aisle of the small church. In the vault beneath it, Mary Boleyn, Lady Stafford, now slept with her husband for all eternity.
By the light of the four funeral torches, Meg stepped forward to strew dried rose petals on the carved double epitaph, which had borne Mary's name for many years. She sniffed hard and wiped her nose on her sleeve, while Lord Henry
Carey blew his on an embroidered handkerchief. Their eyes met before Meg stepped hastily back to her place in the circle of servants. He cleared his throat, then spoke so softly that they shuffled closer to hear his words.
"Needless to say," Lord Carey began, "I am grateful for your faithfulness and loyalty these years to my mother. Some of you have been with her almost from the beginning, when she came to live willingly in
exile and then when"--he cleared his throat again--"my family fell from royal favor and fortune. You have heard her written words read to each of you and have received the coins or plate she bequeathed to you so that you might begin new lives."
Meg shifted sideways to see him better around Glenda's broad shoulder. She knew several of the servants--maybe his lordship too-- resented her being included in the bequests. After only a year with the Lady Mary, she had eight gold crowns sewn in the hem of her inner petticoat. She wore every garment she owned, and not to keep out the chill night air. She had orders to leave Wivenhoe and head for the Princess Elizabeth. Though she was sore afeared of horses, she had bought one and was going to ride it clear to Hatfield House.
"I am hoping you will be allowed at least a fortnight in the manor house," Lord Carey went on, "before word of Lady Stafford's passing must be reported to the queen and someone comes here to claim it." His voice got bitter as rue when he said, "Like all Boleyn holdings, Wivenhoe is forfeit to the crown. ... King Henry secretly decreed only that the Lady Mary might have this for the rest of her life, so ..."
He didn't finish that thought. Some of the servants bowed their heads, some sniffled. Meg bit her lower lip hard and concentrated on that mere physical pain to try to stem the other.
"And lastly," his lordship said, his voice croaky as a frog's now, "should you be asked, I must beseech you to keep my presence here concealed as best you can. But should someone force you to it, say merely I came to comfort my lady mother on her deathbed and have gone back to the continent, parts unknown."
He began to turn away, then whirled back so his short black cape belled out. "And should
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