Mistress of Mourning (13 page)

A shiver shook me. By the lady, he meant the queen. “No, but I’ve been preoccupied. I admit I haven’t been watching. Yet I can’t imagine that—”

“You know what happened to ze Egyptians.”

“The Egyptians? You mean in the Bible?”

“No—just heard about it,” he said, lowering his voice to a whisper, though we were quite alone. “The pharaohs, their kings and queens, they build small burial chambers hidden in huge stone buildings. But to keep ze location of their bodies secret from grave robbers, they kill ze ones know about it, ze ones built it for them, seal them in a crypt too.”

“What? You don’t mean that the—the lady—wants to silence you for what you know?”

“Just my imagination,
si
, but I got a good one—you too, I bet. Artists must have that or not artists at all.”

I tried to reassure and calm him. He went back to work as I hurried upstairs and went outside to the cart to carry down two more black tapers and then, when I saw Firenze was working like a madman, went back up for two more without bothering him. The boys were blowing on their hands and stamping their feet in the cold, so I sent Piers to buy hot spiced ale and roasted chestnuts for us. I told them I would take longer this time because I needed to set up the candles. But when I went back down with my last load, the artist was nowhere to be seen.

I feared Firenze was upset that I had not sympathized with him more about his worries. Had he just not been speaking to me on my second trip down because I’d ignored his talk of Egyptians? Was he playing a trick on me? Not only was he not in the small chamber, but he had snuffed out all but one of the lamps in the room, though the stairwell was still brightly lit and threw light within.

I put the heavy tapers down. I looked for him under the benches, then behind the glorious triptych screen with the soaring angels. There was room for someone to hide back here. How I’d like to secrete myself to hear what really went on in one of these males-only rituals, but I saw nothing but spiders there.

“
Maestro? Signor
Firenze? Roberto Firenze!”

My voice echoed. Surely singing or chanting would carry just that strangely down here. I saw that the side door to the huge crypt area itself, which Christopher had mentioned, stood slightly ajar. Was Firenze hiding out there? I did not put it past him to jest with me, but he had not seemed in the mood for that today. Yes, his things were still laid out here—paint exposed to the air, even a big horsehair brush dropped hastily on his large palette, with its handle as well as bristles in the paint.

Dared I look out into the crypt? Perhaps he had just gone out to relieve himself or even to explore. I could imagine the coffins and monuments of yore resting there in the vast, silent darkness. I shivered again. I could go for help, though to whom I did not know. Or at least I would take the lantern at the bottom of the stairs with me and call into the crypt for him.

I shook my head at my foolishness. I was obviously making much ado about nothing. The volatile little man had evidently gone up to get some drink or food, and I had simply missed him on my way back down. I should have asked whether he needed something from upstairs. He could have gone out any of the cathedral doors and not wanted to leave all the lanterns burning while he was away for a respite.

Without anyone else here, the walls seemed to close in on me. I stood frozen, trembling, almost unable to get myself to move toward the staircase. My pulse pounded, and I could not catch my breath. I could see why they wanted to have the ceiling painted down here. That would at least give the illusion of space. To think of all those dead bodies just beyond that partly open door to the crypt, enclosed forever, just as my dear ones, my Edmund had been. And to think that Firenze had feared he was being followed and I had refused to credit it…

I heard footsteps on the stairs. Thank heavens, he was coming back. As he approached, the light that curled from the well-lit staircase into the back of the chapel dimmed as his form blocked it out. His shadow, somewhat shapeless in a cape perhaps, cast itself upon the wall and then disappeared.

I realized the person was too big to be Firenze. Whoever it was had been putting out the lanterns on his way down the steps. Was it the one who had been following Firenze, and the artist had gone upstairs, seen him, and fled back down here and into the crypt to hide? Should I call out or hide too?

A long, black-sleeved arm with black gloves reached out to lift the lantern at the bottom of the steps off its hook. The intruder shuttered the light so that only a single, narrow beam shot into the room, for all had gone dark behind and around him.

His steps slowed. As I pressed myself back behind the edge of the triptych, I heard him shuffle into the room. He could trap me here. I dared not cry out to question or challenge him.

Staying in the shadows, I bent over and tiptoed toward the door to the huge crypt under the cathedral. Some said it was as large as the building above. I cursed the door when it creaked as I opened it farther and darted out into utter blackness.

I
feared I would be pursued, and I was right. How had everything so swiftly gone so wrong?

I heard the man come out into the crypt. His narrow lantern beam swept the area by the door, back, forth, along the walls, the floor. I heard him close the door to the chapel firmly; I knew that would be my only way out. If I fled farther into the crypt, I could wander in the darkness for days and be lost down here forever in this pitch blackness. I knew I must work myself back to the door and flee upstairs, but then, my pursuer knew it too. If I was gone too long, would the apprentices summon help or send someone to look for me? Why had I told the lads I would be gone for a long while? I should have heeded Firenze’s warning about being followed. And where was he?

Bending low, I tried to feel my way along, but I bumped into stone tombs or even metal coffins here and there. One resounded with a muted boom, but the man must not have
heard it. With his lantern beam still a narrow shaft, playing it back and forth before his feet, he slowly worked his way closer to me. He must know I had not the courage to flee into the depths of the crypt. So did he know me? Was this someone I knew?

I was horror-struck at how closed-in I felt, despite being in an immense area. My blood pounded like drumbeats in my ears. I had to remind myself to breathe. The air was stale. Dust shrouded everything I touched. Spiderwebs laced themselves across my perspiring face and snagged in my eyelashes. I heard a rat scurry away and wished that I could too.

Behind a big stone monument, I knelt and peered out. It was pitch-black but for the man’s shifting stab of light as he methodically came closer. Who was he? Surely not Firenze in disguise with huge, padded shoulders to teach me a lesson about being followed, though he had mentioned the foolish women he painted who were lost in the dark. Had that been a clue that he would play this macabre trick on me?

Christopher, who had of late become more desperate about possessing me—had he hired someone to frighten me so I would realize how much I needed him? Or had he come back to town early? It could be one of the members of the holy guild who didn’t approve of a woman so much as stepping into the place of their secret rites.
Holy Mother Mary
, I prayed,
please don’t let Firenze’s fear come true that the queen sent someone to ensure that we keep silent.
Nick? No, of course it could not be Nick, however much this man’s height seemed to match his.

Tears speckled my cheeks when I blinked, but tears or
not, eyes closed or not, the blackness was all the same. I felt the weight of the massive stones above me, the weight of my fears pressing me down. I had to bite my lip not to scream out in abject fear, even if that gave away my position.

From time to time I heard the man’s sword scrape against stone or ding a metal coffin. Was it still in his scabbard, or had he drawn it? And for what purpose against an unarmed woman?

He suddenly lifted his lantern aloft. I ducked, hitting the floor on my belly. He spoke in a whisper, but even that echoed.

“Varina! Her Majesty has sent me to fetch you. The master painter is already on his way. We must make haste.”

How could this man know about the queen, unless she had sent him? I did not answer, did not move, only breathed, shallow and slow. If he came closer, I must crawl farther away, find shelter in this place I could not see.

I prayed that death and purgatory were not like this. I must leave behind more money for masses said for Will’s and Edmund’s and my souls. I must donate more votive candles, more— Was I mad? I must keep my mind on the here and now.

I forced myself to crawl slowly, feeling the way before me lest I bump into another tomb. My skirts under my knees dragged me back. I pulled my front hems up and held them in my teeth and crawled upon my bare knees on the dusty, hard stone. The next tomb I reached was carved, some sort of large sculpture. I had dared to go back closer to the chapel door—at least I thought so. If I hadn’t lost my bearings, this was an area the man had already searched. I
stood to feel the carving with both hands—a stone effigy of someone in armor? I think a stone-hewn dog lay at his feet. Yes, his wife’s effigy lay stretched stiffly out beside him, but with enough room for me to climb up and wedge myself between the two of them.

I could only pray my pursuer would not find me here, that I was hidden by the stone or the shadows. I lay as still as the dead, as still as the wax effigies I’d carved. The fact that my pursuer did not speak again must mean he was afraid I would recognize his voice—or that now, since I had not answered, he knew that ploy would not ferret me out.

Surely he would not search the entire area. If his lantern gutted out in the erratic drafts here, he could be lost too. I warrant he was thinking I would make a dash for the chapel door. That I longed to do, but I was smarter than that, not a wise virgin with a lantern but a wary widow in the dark. Even if he went back into the chapel and locked me in here, I could bang on the door when the guild members met late this afternoon—if I did not lose my mind by then.

If this man thought he would go out and leave the chapel door ajar and wait inside to snag me, he was much mistaken, but what had he done with
Signor
Firenze? The hastily abandoned brush in the paint palette now made me even more fearful for the artist’s safety. Could he be on his way to see the queen and had thrown his brush down in all haste? No, if that were true, would not my pursuer have identified himself?

The man was moving slowly back toward the chapel. Dared I hope he was going to leave? I was shaking so hard my shoulders bumped the stone shoulders of my hosts. Oh,
no, he was coming close. But he seemed to be projecting his beam low, to guide his own feet or to flush me out like hunted game. How I longed to leap at him, to scratch his eyes and tear his cap and cape away.
Who are you?
I wanted to scream.

He paused near where I lay. I could see some of this tomb now in the wan, reflected lantern light, stone emerging in shades of gray, a tall, carved monument around and above me. Of the man himself, I dared not shift myself to try to catch a glimpse of him.

My nose tickled. I could not sneeze or all was lost. Though I needed to stay as still as stone, I slowly raised one hand and jammed a finger under my nose. Yet I was going to sneeze. He would find me, I— Ah…

The sensation passed, and he did too, walking faster now, going out the chapel door and banging it closed behind him. I heard him lock it; the metallic sound echoed. At least that proved he had actually gone in, not just pretended to, then waited in the dark for me to move.

Tears of relief ran down my temples into my hairline and my ears. Yet I had never beheld such utter blackness. Fearing I would lose my bearings and miss the direction of the door, I sat up. My snood snagged on something and my hair spilled free, but I did not stop. I climbed down and started in the direction of the sounds he’d made. I must make straight for that but not go too close, lest he suddenly throw open the door again to seize me.

But I did go a bit closer, praying I was on track. It would not be too long—maybe several hours—before the holy guild members, including Christopher, would be inside, and
then I must knock for help, explain some of what had happened. But time, space—everything here was out of joint. The air was not good, and I felt so drained…my body shaking with fatigue from holding myself so still and quiet…fears, emotions, and exhaustion sapping the remnants of my strength.…

Hiding under an elevated bronze coffin, despite stirring up a nest of mice there, I must have fallen asleep.

I jerked awake so fast I banged my head on the bottom of the coffin. Lying back, slightly stunned, I heard sounds—singing. By the saints, the service in the chapel must be under way!

I edged out from under the tomb, amazed I could pick things out around me a bit now. Had my eyes finally adjusted to the dark? No, for whatever reason, the door to the chapel stood ajar. Despite how long I must have been in here, should I wait for them to finish? What would it do to my reputation—or Christopher’s—if I were to spring out, filthy and wide-eyed, during their solemn service?