The Assassin's Wife Page 10

  Joan caught me watching and left off whipping eggs to take platters from the dresser. “This is a cheerless house.” She grumbled with an exaggerated shiver, knotting an earth-tinted, wool cloth about her shoulders. “I’ll wager all the wood in Christendom wouldn’t make a fire strong enough to warm us. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m chilled to the marrow. And it’s barely October! We’re doomed for a long winter, I’ll be bound.” Her eye lit on me hunched over the heat then. “Go tell my Lady it’s time to dine.”

  Reluctantly, I threaded through that draughty corridor to where Dame Eleanor sat reading before the blaze in her own chamber, a great swathe of furs about her. How feebly the flames fluttered, even here, in spite of the generous heaping of logs. Gloom seemed to quench the candles in their sconces. Momentarily I quailed at the grotesque shadows thrown on the thread-bare tapestries decorating the oak panelled walls.

  “Dinner’s ready, madam.” I executed a clumsy curtsey.

  “I’ve little appetite,” she answered, glancing up at me. Then she threw down her book and made a swift study of my appearance. “Stay and talk,” she said with a smile. “Sitting here alone the strangest thoughts seem to come into my head. I fear— ” She flinched suddenly, as if aware of some noise in the upper storey. “What do you think of this house Nan? Don’t you think it odd?” She gazed round the shadowy chamber then, her eyes large and liquid in the dim candle-light. “I’m sure it’s haunted.” She shuddered. “Often in the night I hear footsteps outside my chamber door but when I look there’s no-one. Have you noticed anything yet?”

  Wary about what she might have heard about me, I feigned nonchalance. “These old buildings tend to creak and groan,” I answered, remembering Joan’s nervous laughter. “When tree-branches flap against the shutters it sometimes sounds like footsteps.”

  She giggled at this fanciful explanation. “Come and sit by the fire and tell me about yourself. Your priest thinks highly of you.” She spoke pleasantly as if to draw me out. “He told me about your misfortunes and the need for you to make a new beginning.”

  I wondered then exactly what Brother Brian had said of me. If she’d known I’d been driven away by my family for suspected witchcraft, would she have been so cordial?

  At close quarters, I estimated her to be in her early twenties. Her gown, caught high under her bodice, fell in exquisite rosy folds. I studied her fair face and luminous brown eyes, admiring the pale yellow hair she wore in elaborate coils fastened with jewelled pins. A delicacy about her features suggested modesty but the full lips promised carnal pleasures. I knew instantly she’d no desire to remain a widow.

  As she chafed my chilly fingers with her own extraordinary slender ones—a gesture I found embarrassing from one of noble birth—I pretended interest in the discarded volume by the hearth. I didn’t want to acknowledge the spectral nun who stood behind her in the shadows and silently invoked Brother Brian’s prayers of protection against evil spirits.

  “Can you read, Nan?”

  I shook my head, ashamed at my ignorance. Her brown eyes shone warm with sympathy but I realised she longed for a companion with whom she might share her interests. I imagined her older husband had cosseted her. Now loneliness drove her to seek new means to fill her empty days, but I puzzled at this eagerness to befriend servants.

  “Has Dame Eleanor no family to help her regain her property?”

  Later that evening Joan and I hugged the kitchen fire, sharing sweet-meats.

  Joan cast nut-shells into the flames, chuckling as they popped. “She’s a wealthy sister in Norfolk—married to a duke. This sister and she were always very close, but he’s too wary of jeopardising his position in the new order to help us.”

  “But why doesn’t King Henry do something for her?”

  “Lionel says King Henry’s no power since Warwick set the Duke of York’s eldest son on the throne.”

  “How can he do that? We can’t have two kings, can we?” All the wrangling amongst the barons muddled me, although mention of Warwick reminded me of the parade in which I’d glimpsed my black-haired lover. Would I ever see him again? This exciting thought quickly distracted me from Dame Eleanor’s problems.

  Joan shrugged, her mouth crammed with filberts. “I can’t understand what’s going on in this country anymore. None of it makes any sense to me, nor am I very interested!” She laughed then, spitting nut-crumbs. “I don’t suppose it matters much who’s king as far as you and I are concerned, Nan. If you’re so keen, you’ll have to ask Lionel about it.”

  As it turned out I’d no need.

  One wet afternoon when Joan scurried off to the butcher’s and Dame Eleanor took instruction with Brother Thomas, her chaplain, Lionel returned from the tavern in a particularly good humour. Breathing ale fumes, he gathered us around to share the latest jests and repeat one of many lurid stories about the baron’s squabbles.

  “Great gobs of blood ran down the steps and all the gawping people in the market place were frozen with horror,” he began. Little Jack’s eyes started from their sockets and his mouth dropped open. Lionel continued his gory tale, his voice low and full of menace, and I thought at once of Robin Arrowsmith scaring us with similar stuff. “That night, when everyone had crept away to their homes, a mad woman came and picked up the head.” He crouched before the hearth, picking up a log to demonstrate, cradling it in his arms. “She washed the blood from it and she kissed the open eyes.” He paused as Jack gulped. “Then she combed the blood-soaked hair, and kissed it. She sang to it, and she fetched candles and lit them all around. It sat there on the steps staring into space. Soon there were hundreds of lights shining and flickering. It looked as if the eyes and the lips were moving, as if the head was still alive—”

  The door opened suddenly. Shrieking, we clutched at each other.

  “Whatever’s the matter?” Joan bustled in with a basket of dead rabbits and slammed them down on the table. The sight of the bloody animals thrust so glaringly into our midst sent Alison jumping away and Jack made an unpleasant gurgling sound in his throat. Alarmed, Joan looked at me. “What is it? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Laughing uproariously, Lionel said, “I’ve been telling them about Owen Tudor’s execution.”

  “And who’s this Owen Tudor?” Joan jabbed a finger in his chest, plainly infuriated by his teasing manner.

  “He was married to mad King Harry’s mother.” Lionel loved to win Joan’s attention for whatever reason. “He and his son—the king’s half-brother—joined the Lancastrian army—the one beaten by Edward of York at Mortimer’s Cross last February—”

  “Never heard of it,” said Joan, dismissively. She picked up a knife.

  Lionel winked at us. “Well, it wasn’t that long ago, Joan. Have you been asleep? Never mind, listen— when Owen Tudor was sentenced to be executed, he didn’t believe it could happen—because of his royal connections. It was only when he saw the block, and they ripped off his collar, he realised they were actually going to kill him.”

  Lionel guffawed again but Joan’s face grew stony.

  “So you think that’s funny, do you? Chopping men’s heads off is a joke to you men, is it?”

  “A mad woman came and kissed his head after it was cut off.” Jack’s horrified whisper silenced everyone.

  Appalled, Joan crossed herself. “What terrible things have you been saying to this child? Have you no sense? Do you want to frighten him out of his wits with your play-acting?”

  “But it’s true, Joan.” Lionel held up his hands as if to emphasise his innocence. “I have it on the best authority.”

  “Aye.” She busied herself with the rabbits, lips pursed. “From some alehouse, I’ll be bound.” She looked up from slitting the soft underbelly of one of the beasts to point her bloody knife at him. “Have you nothing better to do than scare children? There’s wood to be chopped.”

  “I shall perform my duties without fail.” He sketched a mock bow. “But when murderous sol
diers come battering at the door, Joan, I’ve no doubt you’ll sing a different tune. You’ll run to me for protection then, not drive me away with endless wearisome tasks.” He twisted his face into an amusing expression of mock suffering.

  “Get away, you rogue,” said Joan, shaking with suppressed laughter. “There’ll be no soldiers coming here—murderous or otherwise. Anyway, you shouldn’t speak so disrespectfully. You know my lady’s husband was a staunch supporter of King Henry.” She paused in her gutting, her plump face serious as if she felt guilty for her earlier mirth. She lowered her voice. “The butcher’s wife told me the poor soul spends all his time in prayer and fasting. This Edward’s an upstart the Kingmaker’s set on the throne for his own ends.”

  “That may be true,” said Lionel, winding his old red chaperon about his shoulders. “But young York has a better claim to the throne than ever daft Harry did.”

  Joan shook her bloody fingers at him. “Pish-posh! I’m tired of all this nonsense! Edward of March will end up like his father, crowned with paper and his head stuck on the city gates for his pains. And Warwick with him! Just you wait, Lionel Hillers!”

  Joan’s words reminded me uncomfortably of the three severed heads I’d once revelled in telling Brother Brian about. I didn’t care to think too long about such horrors now.

  At Mass that Sunday, Brother Thomas preached of miracles. For me, these stories of Jesus brought back childhood memories and the comfort of Brother Brian’s familiar, kindly face as he told them. But when the young chaplain spoke of what he called the “miracle” at Mortimer’s Cross, I recalled Maud’s fanciful tale which had so incensed the Lancastrian supporters and the strange dream I’d had that very morning.

  Joan nudged me. Glancing round surreptitiously to where the men sat together at the back, we noticed Lionel, muscular arms folded across his broad chest, looking very smug. He nodded and smirked.

  The chaplain paused. Someone—probably Jack—farted. This produced a sudden convulsion of stifled sniggers and shaking shoulders among the men-folk. We turned back swiftly, hanging our heads to avoid the priest’s reproachful stare. Joan’s plump cheeks burned bright as fire, and I barely managed to suppress the bubbling giggles which threatened. Fortunately, Dame Eleanor was too enraptured by the sermon to notice anything.

  “I never heard such nonsense,” said Joan. Back in the kitchen, a vast linen apron tied about her waist, she set about stirring sauce. “Brother Thomas’s young and gullible, but he shouldn’t repeat such tattle. As for you—” She gave Jack a cuff around the ear which sent him scuttling. “I never felt such shame.” She turned back to her tasks, lifting fish on to a platter, tutting with exasperation. “These stories are made up by the Yorkists to fool honest folk into believing their champion’s the rightful king. Three suns indeed! How can a priest speak so foolishly of divine approval and heavenly signs? Has he forgotten King Henry was anointed before God?”

  “But perhaps it’s true.” Alison’s scarred face glowed bright with excitement, for the sermon had been a stirring one. “Can’t there be miracles today just like the ones in the Bible?”

  Lionel and Joan soon reached logger-heads concerning the nature of miracles.

  “It’s the Earl of Warwick who’s to blame!” Jack’s boyish treble halted their squabble. “He changed all the rules and put a new king on the throne. That’s why he’s called “the Kingmaker”. King Henry’s mad but Edward of York’s clever and a brave fighter –”

  “And they say he’s ever so handsome—” Alison’s cheeks bloomed hot pink.

  “And I suppose my lady will have to present her petition to this stripling now?” Clearly irritated by the scullery-maid’s ardour for the usurper, Joan splashed wine into a goblet. “Kingmaker indeed! Warwick wants to watch his step or he’ll be ending up with his head on the block like that Owen Tudor you love to talk about. There’ve been too many changes this year and some people are easily swayed by fair faces and fair words —”

  The bantering continued as I drifted into a day-dream. In it, I watched my golden knight ride towards me, the sun’s rays about his head streaming like a bright halo. But his smile soon twisted into a snarl. Drawing a dagger, he leapt from his horse to strike an unarmed youth kneeling at his feet. In horror, I cried out—

  “Nan! Whatever’s the matter?” Joan dropped the bread knife, scattering crumbs.

  “You’re very pale.” Stalwart Lionel drew me gently to a stool and chafed my hands.

  “Just a bit faint.” How feeble the excuse sounded. Looking into Lionel’s puzzled, brown eyes I wondered what I’d said to cause such consternation. “I’m sorry. Did I frighten you?”

  “You looked as if you’d seen a ghost.” Joan’s perturbed expression flustered me.

  “You were just staring into space,” Alison said. She looked impressed. “I thought you were going to have a fit. I had a sister like that. She used to—”

  “Too much excitement.” Joan flashed Alison a warning. The girl stooped to retrieve the fallen knife, but didn’t hide her knowing smirk. I opened my mouth to speak but Joan held up a hand, cutting off any inquiry. “It’s enough to upset anyone.”

  Joan was certainly right about changes. Hadn’t my visions become more urgent and confusing? This latest menacing development disturbed everyone. My head swam as I stumbled to Dame Eleanor’s chamber. Something wrong about this house affected all of us— something which encouraged my premonitions. I wished Brother Brian back in the city. I badly needed his advice.

  Chapter Seventeen

  As Joan feared, bleak October brought bitter weather. Trees sprouted whitened buds and every branch sparkled with frost. Great globules of ice hung from the eaves and birds fell dead, their feathers stiff and sharp as daggers. At night I shivered listening to the wind’s moan and the creak of timbers, dreading the moment I must rise and dress. The treacherous slide across the courtyard to the water butts brought daily misery. Lionel broke the thick panes of ice sealing their surfaces to reach the freezing liquid, but that didn’t stop us grumbling. Stung by pellets of hail or drenched in sleet, we scuttled about unwelcome tasks, hands and heels red with chilblains, snapping at each other like bad-tempered terriers. Small wonder my lady bewailed her loss of land and comfort in this inhospitable atmosphere.

  Daily she sought an audience with the king. But who was king? Was it mad Harry who spent more time telling his beads than considering matters of state, or was it proud Ned of York, the Rose of Rouen, whose burnished hair made ladies sigh—at least according to the ballad-mongers who sang so ardently of his gallant deeds? The city seethed, rife with gossip. Maud would revel in these rumours, I thought grimly every time I rose to face another cheerless day.

  “Nan, I want you to sleep on the truckle bed in my chamber tonight.”

  Surprised, I leapt up from storing linen in the carved oak chest just outside Dame Eleanor’s chamber. “I thought Gerta—”

  “Gerta grunts and snores.” She giggled, pressing a hand to her mouth like a young girl.

  Gerta, a big-boned, bland-faced Fleming, had been hired to attend upon Dame Eleanor’s wardrobe. She rarely ventured into the kitchen because Lionel mocked her guttural speech and Joan proclaimed loudly before her, “I can’t understand a word that wench says!” She kept mostly to her small chamber close to Dame Eleanor’s, ready to help her dress or run errands.

  “There are so many strange noises in this house at night I don’t like being alone.” There was no laughter in this confession. She twisted the rings on her fingers and nibbled her lower lip, her eyes flicking towards the stairs.

  I dropped a curtsey. “I hope I’ll prove a quiet sleeper, my Lady.”

  Quitting the easy company of Joan and Alison in our shared bed-chamber was hard, but Eleanor showed me many favours. She allowed me to look at the lovely illustrations in her Book of Hours and even attempted to teach me to read. But her giddy nature prevented perseverance. Her mind flitted like a butterfly unable to settle for long on one flower
and too often frivolous gossip fuelled her imagination.

  “Tell me about your home in the country,” she said one night. She wrapped her night-robe round her, shaking out the tangle of her pale hair, while I folded away her garments.

  I began describing the tiny cottages, the painted manor house, the great windmill spreading its sails over us like a sentinel, the men toiling in the fields, the blacksmith sweating at the forge, Noll Wright carving wood and Fat Marion brewing ale. The words brought back poignant pictures of a life that now seemed so far away. I tried to imagine my brothers playing on the green or racing by the water-mill to dangle their toes in the pond just as I’d once done—

  “Did you ever see King Henry and his queen?”

  Although I’d learned quickly Eleanor rarely gave anything more than superficial attention, this abrupt question startled me.

  “My Aunt Grace once took me to watch a procession.” I left off combing her hair then, frowning to recover this memory. “I was newly arrived in London and amazed by the bold way people leaned out from the casements, cheering and waving.” I laughed, recalling the noisy crush in the stinking street and the excitement dancing inside me. “I almost fell over when the crowd pressed forward and then a workman lifted me on his shoulders so I could watch in safety.” Fondly I pictured again the rough-haired man with the calloused hands and unintelligible speech. “Queen Margaret was so beautiful,” I said, sweeping a brush over Eleanor’s pale tresses. “Her black hair shone like silk and flowed over her shoulders right down to her waist. And she was dressed in gorgeous vermillion and gold robes.” Vividly, I saw again the “she-wolf” as a creature made of flames, her eyes flashing dark fire.

  “What about the king?” Eleanor’s face looked strangely sad in the candle-light. For a moment, with her pale hair hanging about her shoulders and her hands pressed together as if in prayer, I thought her a penitent seeking absolution.