Free Mistress of Mourning by Karen Harper Page B

Gil’s help, I had wrapped my parents’ and brother’s bodies; Gil and Maud had not let me helpwith Will’s. But Edmund’s little frame—I had wrapped Edmund and then held him in my arms until they pulled him away.…
    “The other bad thing is,” John Barker was saying—he ever looked for problems—“that Their Majesties plan to view the princess’s passing by with her entourage tomorrow from the window of the haberdasher William Geoffrey in Cheapside, and he’s the one who will head this man’s burial procession. Wrap him good now, because he’s going to have to wait for burial at least until the day after the wedding, and then mayhap in secret, since there are to be jousts and revels at Westminster for several days, and all that following the banquet at Baynard’s Castle. Physicians and barber-surgeons are to stand at the ready lest any knights are hurt at the tilt rail.”
    I said naught about those festivities, though Nick had told me much of them and had promised I might have a glimpse. I accepted my payment from John and Clement—yes, that’s right; that was his name—and took my leave. This house was not far from Walbrook, which was hard by St. Mary Abchurch, where my family was buried. I had visited their graves frequently after each funeral, then less often, the same with even Will’s and Edmund’s, because I could not bear the pain. But today I would go, then hie myself to St. Paul’s.
    My parish church was situated on a slight rise in the southwest section of Walbrook Ward. With its turfy graveyard curled around it on three sides, the old gray stone building abutted Abchurch Lane and Candlewick Street. My people were buried on the south side, for by tradition the north wasthe domain of the devil, the burial site for unbaptized infants, suicides, and criminals. Tall, thick yews hunched over the mossy stones, for those trees were evergreens, to remind us of eternal life, and their red berries to recall Christ’s blood shed for us. I passed through the stone wall, using the lych-gate with its roof-covered seats where the bearers of coffins oft rested out of foul weather.
    The gate creaked, even as I closed it carefully. Though I had not been aware of him before, I saw a man I did not recognize coming close behind me. He nodded, entered also, and, with his hooded black cloak flapping in the fitful breeze and snagging on his sword, he walked around the church to the north side. No one else was in sight in the graveyard, though it was midmorn and others passed by, so I had no fear.
    I slowly approached the single, small headstone that marked the Westcott plot: WCOTT, it read, for many of the smaller stones had shortenings of the names. The one marking the Waxman graves where my parents and brother lay had praying hands and WXMN. In faith, I supposed it hardly mattered how earthly records read, for human bones might lie here, but their spirits had long since flown away.
    So why could I not let Edmund go from my thoughts? I agonized as I knelt by his grave. And why was Her Majesty yet haunted by her losses, especially those of her brothers who died long ago? Though if they were indeed murdered, of course, she could yet seek justice or revenge.
    Despite the past summer season, the grassy turf above my child’s coffin had not yet regrown. I had thought that carving the queen’s effigies of her children had helped meto pass beyond grieving, but kneeling there, I felt the crushing weight of loss again. How I wished I had Nick to listen to or talk to now—just to know that he was near and—
    “I beg your pardon, mistress, but you seem familiar with this area.”
    I sucked in a sharp breath, then steadied myself and rose quickly to my feet. It was he who had come in the gate behind me, and I had not heard a sound of his approach.
    “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