“You needed it, Mary, and besides, I had the distinct impression that it would have availed me nothing to have wakened you while I was still there.”
She blushed, but laughed a bit when she saw he was teasing. She found it hard to believe that this passionate, often impatient man whose bed she had so hotly shared could have the restraint to leave her untouched as he had done. She was not certain if she were relieved or hurt.
The double doors to the little Gothic church stood open, incongruously bordered by a blacksmith’s shop on one side and the village stocks on the other. The graveyard stretched away to the side with its crooked turfy stones pointing to the sky in imitation of the tall spires so close overhead.
“May we go in, Staff? I would light a candle and pray a little while.”
He nodded and they both entered, awed to silence by the perfection of this little jewel set in the center of the crude town. Stained glass windows threw their myriad colors on the floor and the crucifix was studded with heavy semiprecious stones. Mary lit a candle, knelt at the confession rail and was amazed that Staff knelt beside her, his elbow touching hers. She prayed fervently for Will’s soul, for herself and for her son so far away. Who would tell him gently of his father’s death, and comfort him if he cried? Then the thought came to her. Perhaps on his way back to Eltham, Staff would stop at Hatfield. But dare she ask for favors when she gave none? When she finally turned her head and looked at him out of the corner of her eye, he was staring at her and a priest stood behind them.
“We are pleased to have strangers here to worship,” he said low. “Perhaps there is a special need? I did not see your horses.” His crooked smile lit his face.
“We are staying at the inn, father. We are en route to Edenbridge and stopped to see my old friend, Master Whitman.”
“Ah, yes. Not many travel the east-west road anymore. This chapel was once a pilgrim center for those on the road to Canterbury, but no more, no more. The times have changed. Bands of robbers dare to plague our roads to the south. I fear that the summer curse on London and these parts is God’s judgment on us all.”
Mary was grateful he did not ask their names or their destination in Edenbridge. If he assumed they were married, all the better. She would be ashamed to tell a man of the church otherwise. No doubt he would ask Master Whitman about them afterward, and then he would pray for their sins. If only he knew her husband was but five days dead of the sweat, he would think she were on the road to hell indeed.
Staff left some coins in the church box, and they strolled into the sunlight leaving the curious priest behind in his exquisite little chapel. The traveling fair on the green was pitifully meager after the grand ones she had seen at Greenwich and even near Hever. They walked among the shoddy booths, and she did not object when Staff’s hand rode familiarly on her waist or touched her hair. She continued to look over her shoulder for her disapproving father or bitter Will. The freedom of being where no one knew them was awkward and heady at the same time.
They watched a morality play put on with puppets and drifted past the fortune telling booths. “Would you like yours read, sweet, or do you prefer to make your own now?” he asked.
“Yes, I do prefer to make my own now, Staff.”
He smiled broadly. “That is fine. Only, keep in mind that I prefer the same. Take that and how I feel about you into consideration when you make decisions, Mary Bullen.”
She scarcely looked at the piles of scarves and trinkets the hawkers had spread upon their littered tables, but Staff bent and pulled a shiny hair net from among the heap of colors. “A golden snare,” he said as he dangled it in the sunlight, making its thin woven links glitter and gleam.
“I will take it, man, for the lady’s hair,” he said, handing the eager fellow a coin.
They began to stroll back, slowly, going nowhere in particular. “However free you think you are, Mary, remember this when we are apart. I like to think that I am free too, but I am not. You have ensnared my heart as surely as this net will catch the wayward tendrils of your golden hair.”
She looked at him and tears filled her eyes. “Thank you,” she said, and no other words would come. She fingered the net carefully. It was very fine. How had it ended up at that wretched little country fair? What story had it to tell of its earlier owner? She wanted to share her thoughts and feelings, but she was afraid to trust her voice.
His hand went around her waist as they entered the cobbled yard of the inn. He leaned briefly against her and kissed her cheek. “Come, my golden Mary. We are off to Hever Castle,” he said. They stepped into the dimness of the hall beneath the frayed inn sign.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
July 27, 1528