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.
“Thank God you are safe. I am so sorry to hear about poor Will, despite my feelings for you.”
She stood for endless moments pressed to him like that, not moving, not thinking. Then she stepped back and her hips hit the bed behind her. “How did you know?”
“The messenger you sent to Wilton stopped at Eltham on the way back. The word has rocked the court—and frightened them that the sweat would come again to Hampton and claim one of their own kind. His Grace regrets he had no doctors to leave behind when he fled. He had sent his last spare one to your sister, and he did not believe Will would really remain here when he had a country manor.”
“A doctor to Anne? Is she ill? But Catherine is there!”
“Not ill, I think. It is only that the king worried that he might lose her in any way. I warrant your blonde moppet is quite safe at Hever with your mother and the royal doctor hovering about.” His sweeping gaze took her in from hem to hair. “You are thinner, sweetheart, but as beautiful as ever. I know it must have been awful for you.”
She turned her back on him slowly and took a deep breath. “That is what Will said before he died, you know. He said that I looked beautiful. Oh, Staff, I have failed him so, and I have to make it up somehow.”
“Failed him? What are you talking about? Much of what he had that he valued he owed to you. It was his own decision to turn bitter, to cast you adrift where you might—well, be susceptible to other emotional ties.” He put both hands on her shoulders, but did not turn her to face him.
“He was delirious, and he said other things. He accused me of sending for you and the day he fell ill, we argued and I admitted I loved you. He took that with him instead of the love I could never give to him. Now—and now, I cannot bear it.” A little sob wracked her. He pulled her slowly against him and rested his chin on the top of her head.
“Death is hard to bear, but the living must not feel guilty to go on living, Mary. Yes, Will Carey was a good man in many ways and the snare he found himself in with the Bullens was not of his own making. He was the king’s pawn, love, but he agreed to that. He reveled in it until he saw the price did not suit his family pride. But then he took it all out on you and not on the devils who make the rules to such games.”
“He needed the king to earn his way back.”
“This king can be denied on such matters if one is careful. And I meant to accuse your father as well as the king for all the dirty dealings where you and Will were concerned.”
“Anne is being careful in refusing the king and getting away with it in fine style. Is that what you mean?”
“I spoke of myself in refusing marriage when His Grace wills it, Mary. I will never marry the Dorsey wench now and the king will accept it from me. Wait and see.”
A quick irrational joy shot through her that he would not marry. She had privately grieved that he would these last six months since he had told her the king’s wish. But it must not matter to her now. She must be strong against him.