The Assassin's Wife Page 11

  “He didn’t wear a crown. His robes were really drab, just like a monk’s. I was so disappointed.” I paused, the brush in my hand, visualising the frail, lean figure with the childish face. “Poor King Henry! He had wispy brown hair and darting eyes—he put me in mind of a starling. But I was very young. I’d imagined a king would be strong and proud—someone who’d wear magnificent robes emblazoned with precious jewels. I suppose I’d listened to too many old tales about handsome swains and daring knights!”

  Alison’s description of King Edward flashed into mind. My golden knight was reputedly setting the latest fashions at court and outraging the wealthy citizens with his extravagance.

  During the long hours of these winter nights I often lay sleepless. I listened to the restless steps along the corridors and whisperings from the stairs. Twice I heard an owl hoot at dawn, an omen country folk always thought to presage some catastrophe, but I didn’t mention it to Eleanor. Her feverish imagination conjured too many superstitious fantasies concerning the house as it was. Sometimes she woke me saying she heard whispering outside the door. She clutched my arm with icy fingers, a nervous laugh bubbling in her throat, eyes wide like those of a panicked deer. I did my best to soothe her, but too often she sought to engage me in ghostly tales and mysteries—tales that plainly exercised a powerful fascination for her. Worse, she sent me for a cup of warm wine to bring her sleep. Then I left the drowsy warmth of my bed to cross the corridor, walk down to the kitchen, heat the wine and return, carrying only a flickering candle to keep away those prowling shadows.

  This journey to and from the kitchen terrified me. Here I’d first sensed the malign presence that made Joan so uneasy, but I daren’t speak of it to Eleanor.

  “Nan, are you awake?”

  How I dreaded these words! Could I deny the hand shaking my shoulder?

  “I can’t sleep. I’ve been lying awake for hours.”

  Shivering, I donned my robe, fumbled for the candle. The flame’s soft glow illuminated briefly the dark hollows of her eyes, the hunched posture, the apologetic plea.

  The corridor uncoiled before me black with menace. Sucking in a breath, I pattered across it on bare feet, focussing my eyes on the dancing flame in my hand, intent on shutting out those lurking depths beyond its beam. A few more steps brought me to the safety of the kitchen and the comfort of its fading heat. I closed my ears against the seething dark that seemed to press so eagerly behind me until I crossed the threshold.

  Among the ashes of the fire lingered a few glowing embers. A little wood might yet stir them into life. While I warmed my hands, I breathed through my teeth, shuddering. Until the wine heated I refused to contemplate the return. I thought of Brother Brian and muttered the childish prayers against evil he’d taught me long ago. Already I’d seen too many ghostly apparitions in this place.

  Holding the cup against me and armed with the candle, at last I forced myself to confront the pool of waiting shadow. Now it crouched like a snake ready to strike and swallow me up.

  Alert to every creak and sigh in the fabric of the building, I crept back along that dreadful corridor, careful to avoid the cavernous spaces far beyond my feeble lantern’s glow. But a few paces from Dame Eleanor’s door the candle flame grew eerily tall, became a thin, poised, bluish finger. A chill, crawling sensation forced me to a halt. My scalp tingled. About me swarmed those hungry shadows, greedy for my attention. I heard the whisper of silk across the stones. Far away a high treble voice began to sing. The tune quivered, melancholy, faintly familiar, the words indistinct. Motionless, but for a feverish trembling, I listened unwillingly to the plaintive rise and fall of notes—until the candle went out—suddenly plunging me into deepest black. In that very moment a tiny hand touched my face.

  “Help me.” A child’s voice fanned my ear like a cold breeze. The crawling dark engulfed me—

  Did I scream? If I did, no one spoke of it. I must have dropped the candle in blundering through the door. Wine spilled over my feet but nothing would induce me to go back for more or retrieve the candle.

  “What happened?” Eleanor’s voice shook, breathy with horror.

  “I thought I heard a noise upstairs—” My own voice cracked. “It was probably just a rat or something, but it startled me. I’m sorry about the wine.”

  Cold and shaking, I handed her the cup, fending off her questions with plausible excuses while my ears strained for sounds. But the house lay silent as a sleeping beast. Crouched in my bed, I recited Brother Brian’s prayers until menacing darkness engulfed me.

  I stood in a vast courtyard. A melancholy white face pressed against the upper window of a huge tower wreathed in shadows. Its lips moved and I struggled to make out the words.

  “Watch me, Will!”

  The familiar voice summoned me to a sunlit green where the merry lad with red-gold curls shot arrows at the butts.

  A huge bear of a man, rough-haired and black-bearded, shambled across the grass, beating a great paw upon his thigh as a bolt thudded home. The sound echoed ominously and from the corner of my eye I glimpsed a body drop from a scaffold. Before I could scream, a raven swooped across the sun to settle on the battlements. It squawked at me mockingly, flirting black feathers, its single eye like a shining nail hot from the forge.

  “Master Slaughter!”

  The giant turned, his eyes filling with sudden fear. A green stone set in a silver ring flashed in the sunlight as a hand reached for the boy.

  “Help me!”

  The raven launched itself, scattering dark plumage across my vision, just as the hand pressed against the boy’s mouth. In a stairwell, two hooded figures dragged him into that stifling bedchamber where the shivering candle-flame invited me to witness murder—

  Waking suddenly in a tangle of bed-clothes, I sat upright, sweating with fear. In the dark chamber, the soft rise and fall of Eleanor’s breathing continued undisturbed. I cursed the house and its ghosts while I tried to piece together the fragments of my dream. Who was Will Slaughter, the attendant with the inauspicious name? Could there truly be such a person? And who’d snatched the boy away? Something about the figures on the stairs seemed horribly familiar. Who were those boys in the Tower whose plight still filled me with futile rage? When would I save them as Brother Brian had promised? Hadn’t I been patient long enough? Surely I should have had some sign by now. And how would I find the black-haired man while trapped in this horrible house?

  Next morning I avoided Eleanor’s questions. The memory of the ghostly little hand on my face haunted me too vividly. I didn’t want to walk down that corridor at night ever again. Even in daylight, the others avoided it or pretended they needed someone to help them with their errands to escape being alone in that part of the house. Little Jack raced through it and once I met Lionel pale and trembling, though he wouldn’t say why.

  I blamed the house for raising my old terrors. Once I dreamed I was back in my village being chased by men with staves. Seeking refuge in the church, I found Alan weeping by the altar. On the village green, girls wove coloured ribbons round a maypole, while Alys, crowned with white blossom, danced with a stripling in blue and murrey livery.

  “Robin?” I reached out to touch his shoulder. Turning to greet me, his throat spouted blood—

  Fortunately Eleanor slept soundly.

  * * * * *

  At the beginning of a harsh November, Brother Brian stopped on his way to the little Priory of St John to deliver messages. I was certain these included a visit to Alan. I ushered him out of a fierce sleet storm into the kitchen.

  “Dame Eleanor’s gone to present her petition.”

  “It’s a bitter day.” The priest shivered, his coarse robes steaming from the heat of our kitchen fire. “The roads are almost impassable.”

  Lionel poured him a generous measure of warm ale. “Some wise woman said this cruel weather promises more trouble.” He grinned at Joan’s impatient hiss. “I don’t know much about fortune-telling, Brother Brian, but common
sense tells me there’ll be more fighting. There’s still plenty of support for the old king—” He flashed Joan a teasing glance. “Though I daresay the wenches would be sorry to lose their golden Edward.”

  “We’re not all taken in by fine appearances. But what chance does Dame Eleanor have of regaining her stolen estates with this stupid squabbling going on?” Kind-hearted Joan wrapped a warm mantle about the priest’s shoulders. “Alison, give Brother Brian a bowl of pottage.”

  “I can’t see any petitions being granted with matters amongst the barons so unsettled, that’s certain.” For once Lionel looked serious.

  “Is there any news of King Henry?” Everyone clustered about the priest pestering him with questions like children seeking entertainment.

  “I’ll be at St John’s just for a few days,” he said. He rose reluctantly from his stool by the fire and handed Alison his empty bowl. “I’m sorry not to have seen Dame Eleanor, but with the weather so inclement I daren’t linger.”

  I followed him to the door, desperate for a word.

  “Ask permission to come to St John’s,” he said, and squeezed my hand in absent-minded farewell. With impotent rage and frustration I watched him disappear behind a veil of falling snow.

  Not long after Dame Eleanor returned, rosy-cheeked and breathless, excited as a maid with a new gown. She handed me her sodden, woollen cloak with its coney-fur-trimmed hood and asked Joan to send some warm wine to her chamber.

  “Do you think that upstart’s actually granted her petition?”

  “She certainly looks happy.” I gave Joan a pewter goblet from the press.

  “Please God, Lionel’s wrong and we’ll be back in Sudeley this summer!” Joan chuckled, humming a merry little tune as she poured the wine.

  I found my Lady just as elated, dancing about her chamber as if practising for a ball.

  “Ah, Nan, you should’ve seen him!” She clasped her hands together like a coy maid and executed a giggling twirl. “Such a handsome young man and so tall. He’s the very flower of courtesy.” She snatched the goblet, the ecstatic gleam in her eyes sending a jolt of alarm through me. She hardly listened to my request to visit Brother Brian. Instead she drained her wine and prattled of the many compliments the king had lavished upon her.

  “But did he grant your petition, my Lady?” I grew disturbed by her frantic manner.

  “He promised to give it his personal attention.” She giggled. “He said fair damsels shouldn’t be troubled by heavy business matters.”

  When I relayed this news to ever practical Joan, she looked dubious. “I’ll wager this young man makes clever promises but he’s little intention of keeping them. I hope my Lady isn’t fooled by pretty words.”

  “But if the king’s given a promise—” Alison looked puzzled and disappointed.

  “The king relies on his charm to dazzle all the ladies,” said Lionel. He glanced up from heaving logs on the fire. “His ambitions are far more important to him than keeping his word.” He grinned at Joan. “Some of us keep our promises though, don’t we?”

  Joan’s flush and downcast eyes cheered me but I couldn’t help thinking how gullible Eleanor seemed. Loneliness made her highly susceptible to flattery. Her frivolous chatter continued to alarm me.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “The king’s here!” Jack rushed into the kitchen wild with excitement.

  From outside came the clatter of hooves and Lionel’s startled voice raised in greeting.

  Barely a week since Eleanor’s visit, Edward Plantagenet arrived at the house accompanied by two noble companions and a mere handful of retainers.

  “What are we going to do?” A flustered Joan clutched at her throat and ran about the kitchen clucking like a startled hen. “We’ve very little wine—there’s a meat pie—”

  “But where are we going to put them?” I shook her arm, conscious of the approaching hum of male voices. “Alison, run and tell Gerta to prepare my Lady. Tell her the king’s here—and hurry!” I addressed the bright-faced scullion next. “Jack, go and help Lionel with the horses and try to buy us some time—”

  “We’re not ready for visitors.” Joan babbled, plucking at her apron, tugging at strands of wayward hair. “We can’t put them in that chamber Dame Eleanor calls the parlour—It’s not been used for months. How can we strew fresh rushes now? Even without that fusty smell we’ve little enough wood for fires—”

  I’d never seen Joan in such a flutter. Fleetingly I thought of my aunt with her pretended parlour-chamber and how my uncle winked at me whenever she mentioned it. “Then where?” I feared our guests would enter at any moment. “Most of the chambers are damp and mildewed from lack of use. There’s nowhere else. What are we going to do?”

  “Gerta must take him to my Lady,” a goggle-eyed Joan replied. “And the rest must come in here.”

  We staged a frantic attempt to tidy the place, and then, smoothing our hair and gowns, sank to our knees just as Lionel ushered in our royal guest.

  While the king parleyed privately with Eleanor, we entertained our illustrious visitors in the kitchen, plying them with what meagre provisions we could muster.

  The gentlemen sprawled by the hearth, the common servants by the trestle. All drank our ale at an alarming rate and made ribald remarks which scandalised Joan and sent us into peals of laughter. A rich odour of spice and male sweat, a rustle of opulent fabric and a dazzle of jewels, overwhelmed the familiar shabbiness of our surroundings. It seemed as if we’d been invaded by a gaggle of exotic birds in brilliant plumage.

  A pair of huge, smelly dogs with muddy paws panted and drooled before the fire. Little Jack, cheeks scarlet with delight, revelled in the privilege of attending on them, and a dizzy, dreamy-eyed Alison fawned upon the men-folk, spilling ale and simpering excuses. Unwillingly, I found myself distracted by provocative comments and kindling glances. The heady atmosphere transformed even sedate Joan into a scatterbrain. Recalling how Eleanor’s first meeting with the young king had similarly turned her head, I despised myself for being so foolish. Nevertheless the opportunity of seeing the king and his friends at close quarters proved irresistibly fascinating. Amazed, I found myself conversing with them in an easy manner.

  “What do you think, Will?” asked Lord Hastings of Lord Herbert. They lounged by the fire, supping their ale. Hastings lifted a rakish eyebrow.

  The other gentleman gave a cryptic smile. He tapped his finely polished nails on his leather boots. “A castle that speaks and a woman that will hear, they will be gotten both,” he replied.

  Hastings smirked, licking the red slash of his mouth.

  “Ned has a way with words,” he said, warmly. His eyes slid over me. “What do you think of the king, fair damsel?”

  “His Grace is well-favoured, sir,” I answered honestly. Seen close, the shining knight of my visions proved a golden giant with long, loose limbs and a smile as radiant as an angel’s. In a moment people fell under the spell of his easy charm. I noted how readily Lionel yielded when the king placed a friendly hand on his shoulder and requested him to take care of the horses, just as if speaking to an old friend rather than as master to servant.

  “Aye, Ned’s a comely lad. He finds much favour with the ladies.” Hastings flicked a speck of dirt from his velvet sleeve. “But there are others who can dance as merrily, I assure you.” My cheeks burned under his candid scrutiny. Fortunately Gerta’s arrival broke this interlude.

  Flustered, Joan watched the buxom Fleming set down the tray of empty wine cups. “Does my lady require more wine?”

  Plainly Gerta misunderstood. She shrugged, slumping down heavily on an old settle.

  “Nan, see if she needs anything,” Joan whispered. “I can never get any sense out of that lumpish wench.”

  From Dame Eleanor’s chamber the king’s hearty laughter echoed through the corridors. The trill response of her giggles unnerved me. Twice I lifted my hand to knock and twice my courage failed. The conversation dropped to a low caressing mur
mur. How could I interrupt? A strange intoxicating silence lurked beyond that portal. I knew in an instant an irrevocable step—one with far-reaching consequences—had already been taken. Yet I grasped the door-handle—

  Without warning, a subtle change pervaded the atmosphere. I froze, yielding to the spell of creeping solitude, the uncanny silence permeating the passageway. An irrational terror prickled my scalp sending tingles of unease down my spine. Unwillingly, my eyes shifted towards the great oak staircase. Among its crawling shadows something stirred. For a moment I thought I glimpsed a hooded figure looking down at me.

  Fleeing to the safety of the kitchen, I discovered Hastings had turned his attentions upon a moon-struck Gerta. I stood uncertainly amidst the noise and merriment.

  “Why aren’t you with Dame Eleanor?” A bewildered Joan confronted me.

  “I daren’t interrupt.” My voice rasped, hoarse with tension, and Lord Herbert caught my eye.

  “You mean she’s still alone with the king?” Joan’s eyes darted from me to the waiting gentlemen, a scarlet, shameful flush staining her neck and cheeks. She squeezed my hand, pressing her lips together as I whispered in her ear. Lord Herbert’s sardonic smile mocked our subterfuge.

  “Have you no more to do than to lollop there like a great heifer?” Joan turned on Gerta impatiently. Before the baffled Fleming could respond, the dogs rose barking with excitement and the king entered in a gleam of blue satin and gold. Whining slavishly, the animals fell upon him, leaping up to lick his hands and face, scattering gobbets of drool on his amethyst-coloured hose. Good-humoured as ever, he stooped to fondle them. Then he turned as if to draw us all into the wide embrace of his smile.

  “We thank you for your hospitality.” He rose to his full height. This stately courtesy so impressed, we knelt in homage. The firelight caught the gold collar of suns and roses about his shoulders creating a tawny halo about his head and my recent terror ebbed away.