Mistress of Mourning by Karen Harper Read Free Book Online

why I was riding off each day with a handsome man of obviously good breeding, however he had dressed today.
    Nick stowed my goods in his saddle pack and boosted me up to ride behind him. I was a bit shy to hold on to him as I mounted behind him and he said with a deep voice, “Let’s away!” Strangely, in that small moment, I didn’t give a fig whether Christopher saw us, for I’d thought of a story to cover the truth, though I’d probably pay the piper one way or the other. But, truly, riding close behind this man, my thighs tight to his rear in the slanted saddle as we bounced along, I was not only content but thrilled.
    “You know the truth of why I’ve been summoned?” I asked as we turned toward the river.
    “I do, for I’m to lead you in and out of your work chamber the back way and guard you. I’ll try not to distract you while you work.”
    Was he jesting? Surely he did not know how he affected me. Or perhaps he just knew how he moved women in general, for indeed he must. I wondered whether he was wed, if not to Sibil Wynn then to some other woman. Deciding to change the subject, I said, “You are dressed far different today.”
    “Attire borrowed from a royal stable groom. Depending on the task for Their Majesties, I dress up, I dress down, I ride to the country or stay in town.” He chuckled and I felt his ribs lift, then fall.
    “You serve them both and not just the queen?” Though Ispoke to his broad back and the street hubbub was increasing, he seemed to hear me well enough.
    “Mostly the queen, though it is His Majesty’s goodwill I admit I covet. But that is a long story.”
    At the Steelyard water stairs, he helped me onto the same barge as before, though now stripped of its fringe.
    “You are young to be so skilled,” he said, turning toward me as we set out on the river. His perusal was so intense that I almost missed speaking to his back. But if I blushed the more, he might think it was from the sharp autumn wind.
    “I learned much of chandlery and wax sculpture arts from my parents, especially my father. Do you have a family?” I blurted, before I could stop myself.
    “To put it plain, Mistress Westcott—”
    “You may call me Varina, for you said I should call you Nick.”
    “So I did. My family was on the wrong side in two battles against the king. My father and uncle died at the Battle of Bosworth Field. I was only thirteen at the time and so was summoned to court as a mere page, perhaps as surety of my family’s future good behavior toward the Tudors. But I have learned well and served loyally.”
    “And have risen far?”
    “Not far enough by far,” he said, looking quite serious despite his wordplay. “I hope to earn my way in this Tudor world, for, however His Grace came by the throne, I believe he unifies the past warring factions and makes England stronger. This coming marriage of our Prince of Wales with Catherine of Aragon will help shore up the realm and showFrance we have the powerful kingdom of Spain as friends. Of course, the Tudor throne yet has internal enemies of whom we must be wary—disgruntled Yorkists, fervent loyalists to King Richard, however dead he lies in his grave.”
    “And you are a fervent Tudor loyalist?”
    “I admire a man who can pull himself up by his own bootstraps, as did our king, and it seems to me God’s guiding hand is on him. So, for now, I am guard and guide for the wax woman, as the queen has called you. But you look fair flesh and blood to me.”
    I knew not whether he meant that as a tease, a compliment, or just more wordplay, but by the saints, that mere turn of phrase pleased me more than had all of Christopher’s pretty endearments and vows of love.
    I labored long that first day at the palace.
Tempus fugit
, as my father used to say. I was ever aware of Nick’s presence and his gaze upon me. Though he made it clear the queen had asked him not to speak while I worked, it surely helped me to have him there, to keep the