EPILOGUE Mathew stood by Bertha's grave with the others as they lowered her coffin into the earth. A smile playing at the corners of his mouth, knowing she would not mind the company, in her eternal slumber, of the mercenaries body that now resting below it.
Robert had closed the tavern for the afternoon so that he and Maeve could be in attendance.
Maeve stood quietly beside him, her hands clasped before her as she stared at the grave.
For once, there were no whispered conversations in the churchyard, no laughter from the tavern, and no bustle of villagers going about their daily business.
Only the soft sound of earth being turned and the mournful tolling of the church bell marked Bertha's passing.
Lady Mary stood weeping silently at Bertha's graveside, dabbing at her eyes with a finely embroidered handkerchief held in one delicate hand. Her other arm rested in a sling that hung from her shoulders.
Mathew watched her quietly.
He knew Mary's presence would have brought Bertha great joy.
The old woman had given her life trying to save the lady she had befriended, and to know that Mary had survived her terrible ordeal would have been a comfort to her, had she lived to hear it.
Mary lowered the handkerchief, her gaze lingering upon the freshly turned earth.
"She saved me," she whispered. Mathew nodded.
"Aye. She did at that."
Mary swallowed back another sob.
"Never once thinking of herself."
"Bertha was a good woman," Mathew said softly.
"There were few better."
Mary reached down and threw a small sprig of flowers upon the coffin.
"She shall not be forgotten." She sobbed.
Mathew watched as Mary bowed her head, tears slipping silently down her cheeks.
The noblewoman had explained her sudden disappearance on the night of Bertha's death.
She told them of the unexpected arrival of the Queen's guard, Percival, and how he had escorted her away from the house under cover of darkness, before Mowbray and his men could return.
He had conveyed her to the Convent of St. Bridget's, where the nuns had taken her into their care and tended to her badly broken wrist.
For the first time since her marriage, Mary had found herself somewhere she felt safe.
The memory of Bertha's final moments still haunted her, however.
She could not forget the old woman's kindness, nor the terrible fate that had befallen her while trying to help her.
And though she had survived, Mary knew that she would carry the scars of that night with her for the rest of her life.
Though her tale was bitter sweet, as she was informed by the nuns of St Bridgette convent that Lady Anne had taken her life by throwing herself from the bell tower of the convent.
Johnas had left so much death and destruction in his wake that Mary was almost relieved to hear of his untimely death.
Yet even so, she could not help but feel that he had been granted a kinder death than he deserved.
Perhaps a more fitting fate had been denied him only by chance.
Had he not become lost in the smoke from the fires and stumbled over the cliff's edge in his panic to escape justice on the Mary Rose, he might have met a far crueler end at the hands of the royal executioner, and Mary could not help wishing he had, for what he had done to poor, naive Lady Anne and dearest Maeve.
After bidding them all a fond farewell, Mary and Percival rode off in the direction of St. Bridget's Convent.
Unbeknownst to Eldra, Vincent, and the others, Mowbray's badly burned body had been recovered from the river and taken there after he was rescued from its waters.
Mary had her own plans for her husband, and she intended to carry them out in private.
Mowbray would pay for all that he had done to her, and to the friend she had lost because of him.
She rode in silence beside Percival along the King's Road, her injured wrist resting carefully in its sling.
The morning sun cast long shadows across the road, but Mary scarcely noticed them.
Her thoughts remained fixed upon the man waiting at the convent. Mowbray had believed her to be complacent.
He would not make that mistake again when she was done with him.
* * *
"I guess ye will be leaving us soon as well, Maeve?" Robert asked, his voice heavy with sadness.
Mary had secured a position for Maeve as a lady's maid within the Queen's household before she had ridden north again. Although the girl had been reluctant at first, Mary had assured her that she would fit right in among the young ladies at court.
Once they heard her scandalous tales of the bawdy houses and the colorful clientele who frequented them, Mary had promised, they would be utterly fascinated.
"The ladies at court live for such stories," Mary had told her with a knowing smile.
Maeve had laughed at the thought, though the prospect of leaving the village, and Robert had made her hesitate.
As Robert looked at her from across the bar, trying unsuccessfully to hide the sadness in his eyes.
Maeve gave him a small smile.
"Aye, Robert. It seems I shall."
He looked away, pretending to busy himself with a glass upon the bar top.
Maeve watched him for a moment before quietly adding, "But that does not mean I shall forget you."
He looked up a smile lighting his face.
"Aww, get on with ye, girl. If yer gonna be a fancy lady's maid, ye better get yerself some new clothes."
Robert tossed a gold florin across the bar in her direction.
Maeve caught it, feeling the familiar weight of the heavy purse hidden beneath her skirts before meeting Robert's gaze.
She smiled faintly.
Eldra and Vincent had gifted her the purse when they returned to the village after the fire.
They had told her only that it was payment from Johnas for all he had done to her.
Maeve had stared at the heavy purse Eldra pressed into her hand, turning it over in wonder.
There had been enough coin inside to buy far more than a few new dresses.
She had wanted to ask where it had come from, and whether Eldra and Vincent had played a part in Johnas' death.
But in the end, she had thought better of it. Johnas was dead.
The vile pig who had caused her so much suffering would never be able to hurt her again.
What matter did it make if they had a hand in how he met his end? Maeve closed her fist around the florin and smiled at Robert. "Thank you."
Robert waved a dismissive hand.
"Go on with ya. Before I change me mind." Maeve's smile broadened.
For the first time in a long while, the future seemed to hold something more than fear for her.
* * *
Mary swept into the convent's infirmary, with Percival trailing close behind, as she crossed the room toward her husband's bed.
"Hello, my love," she said brightly, an acerbic smile upon her face as she took a seat beside him.
"I have had the most wonderful news from court. Lady Philippa and Sir Robert Dudley are officially betrothed and are to be wed within a fortnight. Is that not wonderful news, my husband?" she asked coyly.
Mowbray lay upon the cot, wrapped from head toe in bandages. His body twisted in agony, but his bloodshot eyes burned with fury at Mary's words.
He tried to speak, but no sound emerged.
The flames had scorched his throat, leaving him unable to utter even a groan of pain.
"What is that, my lord?" Mary gloated, holding a hand to her ear.
"Do you wish to speak?"
She leaned closer, bringing her face close to his.
"Tell me, are you not happy for them?" She cooed. Mowbray's eyes widened with rage, and Mary smiled. "Tsk, tsk, I had forgotten. You cannot speak, can you?"
She sat back in her chair, savoring the sight of the man who had once cuckolded her now lying helpless upon the cot.
"You always thought yourself so powerful, My Dear Gavin. So... untouchable."
Her smile faded.
"But look at you now." She gloated, leaning back in the stiff wooden chair.
Then she leaned closer once more, her voice dropping to a whisper beside what was once his ear.
"You tried to take everything from me, even my life," she hissed, her eyes hardening.
"and now I am going to take everything from you."
"Did you really think that child Lady Philippa would still want you my love?" she spat, venom dripping from every word.
"Oh no, my dearest husband. What had she done the moment she heard of your terrible accident, and what it had done to your once virile body, and beatific face, she had made haste to Kenilworth Castle in preparation for her upcoming nuptials, and with her beloved sister not even cold in the ground."
Mary tsked again, smiling coldly.
"And now you have proof of how fickle she has proven herself to be, do you not husband?"
She moved ever closer as if to bestow a kiss, savoring the fury burning within his eyes.
"But do not fear, my husband, for I shall never abandon you," she cooed.
Her gaze flickered toward the handsome and young, Percival, who stood silently nearby.
"And Percival here has been more than happy to perform your..." She paused, allowing the implication to linger. "Shall we say, husbandly, duties. Though you were never much bothered by them anyway. With me at least."
Mowbray's eyes widened with outrage.
Mary rose gracefully from her chair, and smoothed down her skirts.
"Come Percival," she said, taking his proffered arm. "Good night, dear husband," she said sweetly, "and pleasant dreams."
She called back over her shoulder.
As she and Percival departed the infirmary, leaving Mowbray alone in his outrage, and the soft sounds of the nuns singing at vespers beyond the infirmary walls.
When the doors had slipped closed behind their retreating figures, for the first time in his life, Mowbray understood what it truly meant to be powerless.
* * *
As the sun began to set and the shadows of dusk crept across the village green, Vincent and Eldra slipped away quietly walking side by side, their pristine white garments, a parting gift from Lady Mary, making them appear like two specter's drifting all the streets and into the gathering darkness.
They made their way toward the docks, where the Mary Rose waited for them to board.
Her departure had been delayed by the fires of the previous night, and as luck would have it, one of her passengers had been killed in the chaos, leaving an elegantly equipped stateroom vacant for its last minute passengers.
They walked up the gangplank, Vincent carrying Johnas's heavily laden leather valise in one of his hands.
Neither glanced back at the village. Too much had happened there.
Too many lives had been lost, and too many of their new found friends had risked all to help them.
As they stepped aboard the ship, a strange sense of peace settled over Eldra.
The Mary Rose soon cast off from the dock, the wind filling her sails, as she slipped away from the pier and glided out into the open waters of the bay.
The sea glowing brilliantly beneath the magnificence of the setting sun.
Eldra rested her head against Vincent's shoulder as the village gradually disappear behind them.
For the first time, there was no one hunting them, no Mowbray, no Johnas, no men with torches and blades.
Only the endless sea stretching out before them.
As they stood at the ships prow Vincent gazed down at her and smiled.
"Wherever the sea carries us, my little raven." Eldra intertwined her fingers with his.
"Yes," she sighed contentedly, smiling up at him.
"Perhaps to Prague?" he breathed close to her delicate, shell-shaped ear.
"Prague it is then, my dark love." Eldra exhaled. "But for now..."
Vincent let his hand slip from hers drawing her into a passionate embrace, their lips meeting in a hungry kiss.
With a hearty laugh, he swept her into his arms and carried her towards their stateroom, while Eldra's laughter was carried away upon the oceans breeze.
Behind them, the ship creaked and groaned as it sailed onward into the darkness, carrying them towards whatever awaited them beyond the horizon.
Le Fin?