The Assassin's Wife Page 15

  Absently, Eleanor stroked a silver tissue sleeve. Her eyes grew huge, lit by brilliance—her face dreamy, as if she looked into far distance. “Oh no,” she answered, her expression indifferent. “She was hired here in London and has no desire for country living.” Her head on one side, she held the sleeve out fondly. “Do you remember how much the king admired me in this?”

  “I do, indeed.” I took it from her to fold alongside its partner. “And I’ve no doubt it will be admired again at Sudeley.”

  Crushing my hand in a fierce grip that made me cry out, she cried passionately, “Come with me!”

  “I promised to return to the Mercers.”

  “But you said you wanted to see the place.” She fixed me with a wounded look.

  “And so I should, but, like Gerta, I belong in the city. It’s a great honour you should ask me, my Lady, but—I’ve matters that detain me in London.” I thought then quite unexpectedly of the stark, white fortress of the Tower and the blue-eyed man who haunted my dreams.

  “Is it your priest?” One restless hand twisted the golden chain about her throat, the other plucked at her skirt. Her mounting agitation alarmed me. I’d seen her overwrought before but this nervous state bordered on hysteria.

  “I’d like to see Brother Brian again but there are others I wish to contact—” How could I tell her about my visions? What would she say if I told her I sought a black-haired man and two noble boys whose lives were in such danger?

  “If you were with me, Nan, I think I could bear this separation from the king more easily,” she said. Her doe-eyes stared, full of pleading. “Promise you’ll stay until he sends for me.”

  I wanted to scream. I knew the king meant to wriggle out of the promise he’d made. The restoration of her estates merely provided a means to be rid of her. But what would happen to me?

  I ran to the stables almost weeping with frustration. “How shall I ever escape?” I leaned against the chestnut mare’s warm flanks for comfort. Gently, she nudged me, her lips nibbling my sleeve, her dark, liquid eyes hopeful. I stroked her glossy neck. “One day, I’ll be free of all this trouble.” I rubbed away angry tears. “I’ll have a home of my own and sit dozing by the fire with my grand-children. All these secrets will be forgotten—and then the king may go hang himself, for all I care!”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Inexorably, the year rode on like a faithful pilgrim towards a shrine, but I wasn’t so patient or so purposeful. By mid-June Eleanor’s dithering drove us all to distraction, and I snatched the first opportunity I could to escape the stifling atmosphere of the house. Anxiety drove me to St John’s. Hearing nothing of Brother Brian since that fateful day in February, my anxiety nagged incessantly like a rotting tooth.

  On the way I stopped briefly at Maud’s shop.

  “She’s gone to her sister’s in Barnet,” called her garrulous neighbour. She heaved her ponderous bulk after me into the street. I paused a moment and she caught me by the sleeve, panting breath shaking an enormous bosom. “She’s missed all the scandal about Shore’s wife and King Edward.” Her heavy, mottled face quivered with the effort of running but her little sow’s eyes glinted spitefully. “Aren’t you the fortune-telling wench who used to work at Mercers’ Pie Shop?”

  I wrenched my arm away babbling excuses. “I’m late—I’m sorry I can’t stop to talk now—” and left her staring after me.

  In a fever of impatience I rang the bell outside St John’s. “Is Brother Brian here?” I asked the elderly monk who finally unlocked the door. He peered at me through screwed up eyes. “Have you any news of him?” His evasive manner annoyed me. “I hoped to find him here. It’s been almost four months—Do you expect him soon?”

  “I fear Brother Brian is unlikely to stay at St John’s again,” he answered gravely. He bowed his head over his tightly laced fingers.

  Alarmed, I clutched at his sleeve. “Why? What about his pupil, Alan?” Sudden fear strangled my voice. “May I speak to him? It’s a matter of utmost—”

  His rheumy eyes rolled upwards. “Master Alan is no longer with us.” Appalled, he stepped back a pace. “He’s gone to Ely.”

  “And Brother Brian? Where’s he?”

  “I’ve no information concerning Brother Brian.” He blinked nervously. “I think you must leave now.”

  I remember little of what happened after except the heavy door closed in my face and I ran to Bread Street.

  “Is something wrong?” Meg stared, arms full of loaves.

  “No, not at all,” I lied, panting hard. Something prevented me from confiding in her. “I’d an errand to run for my mistress and thought I’d drop in to see you. It’s been an age since I was able to leave the house.”

  “Why’s that?” She handed me a warm, sweet pastry.

  “Dame Eleanor’s busy packing.” I noticed Philippa listening intently so I chewed my pastry with slow pretended pleasure, licking crumbs from my fingers.

  Meg gave me a sharp look and snorted with exasperation. “Well, we thought she’d be gone by now, unless— There’s some odd tale going about— But we could do with you back in the shop.” She stroked the proud curve of her belly. “Harry’ll need help when this babe arrives and Philippa leaves. You know she’s betrothed?”

  “Who?”

  “Why, Philippa, of course.” Meg shook her head at my dizzy manner.

  Fortunately customers flooded the shop and curtailed further conversation.

  “Is Harry on deliveries?” I hovered in the doorway. “I might meet him on my way home.”

  “Not unless you’re passing the Tower.” Meg’s eyes danced with mischief.

  “The Tower!”

  “Even the king has a taste for our pies!” Meg’s words delighted her customers, especially as I gawped. “No! Not quite!” she added, laughing. “But Harry’s gone to take bread to the guards and their families. We have their patronage now. It’s been a great boon for business.” Swiftly, she wrapped a large meat pie in a cloth. “Take this home. It’s a new receipt. Tell me what you think of it next time you’re here. And don’t make that too long!”

  I’d little desire to return to Silver Street. The tension in that accursed house tightened like a noose about my throat. Meg’s cryptic remarks about Eleanor stirred my unease. Where was Brother Brian now? I wished I could run to ask Mistress Evans for some help. A vague recollection of the priest’s words about the wise woman disturbed me. And where was Ely? The throb of a headache beat above my brow as I dawdled among the muddle of women bargaining for basins and jugs from a stall in Honey Lane.

  Outside All Hallows Church I caught a glimpse of a golden-haired boy in a blue velvet doublet. As I pushed my way through the frowsy press of thick-bodied matrons, he slipped inside the building. But when I turned into the shadowy portal I found the place quite empty. A chill sense of menace breathed among the crouch of pews and watchful statues. Light barely trickled through the lancet windows, but in its haze dust floated and scurrying insects crept into crevices. In a dark niche a single candle quivered. I stood a moment, soaking in the silence, cold seeping into my bones.

  “Help me.”

  The child’s voice called out clearly, sending icy shivers coursing through my blood. My flesh crawled.

  Escaping, I brushed against a hooded figure, but nothing would induce me to look back. Entering the hot roar of the street, I stumbled blindly in the sunlight.

  “Watch where you’re going!” A black-clad lawyer in fur-collared robe glared at me.

  “Nan!” Lionel grabbed my basket and steered me away, leaving the affronted fellow gathering up his scattered documents. “Joan asked me to find you.” Agitation beaded his reddened face with sweat. “I’ve been searching everywhere. Dame Eleanor’s sick and rambling about a marriage celebration.”

  “A celebration?” I pressed a hand to my temple, struck by sudden foreboding.

  Lionel’s eyes bored into mine. “We thought you’d understand. She mentioned our royal visitor a lot. Nan,
what do you really know about her relationship with the king?”

  This day marked the beginning of an uncertain time.

  “Please God, it’s not the sweat.” An anxious Joan brewed possets and nourishing stews, fretted throughout the day and slept so little her ill-temper sent us scuttling like rabbits.

  “There’s talk of plague in the city.” Lionel’s bass voice rang with doom, though his eyes danced with mischief. “Some wise woman in the Fleet’s saying there’ll be a great pestilence throughout the country this summer on account of wicked lechery in high places.”

  “Leave off, you rogue!” Joan tapped his arm with a ladle but the blow was half-hearted. “Instead of frightening us you could lend a hand by sweeping out the kitchen. Jack, run and fetch a broom from the store, and Nan help Alison put those dishes away while I warm some wine and honey for my Lady.”

  “Do you know where Ely is?” I asked, reaching up to open the press.

  “A long way from here,” said Lionel. “It’s in the Fens.”

  “Why would you want to go there?” Joan looked up from pouring wine.

  “Oh, I don’t want to go there, but—”

  Jack stood by the door, his face white as milk.

  My gasp of shock alerted the others.

  “What’s wrong with you, lad? Where’s that broom?” Lionel chafed the child with good humour.

  “I’m not going back. There’s a ghost in the passageway.”

  “Nonsense! Go back and fetch a besom at once!” Joan spat with exasperation but a fearful shadow lurked deep in her eyes.

  “I swear on my mother’s soul I saw something on the stairs!”

  Joan’s threats proved useless. Touched by the child’s genuine fright, I persuaded him to accompany me in this task. Though I pretended courage, I sensed immediately the malign presence that troubled the house and wondered if Eleanor’s sickness had roused it. As we emerged from the store-room, something warned me not to look up. From the corner of my eye I glimpsed a white shape hanging from the beams. Huddling Jack close, I hurried away, my heart yammering with fright. I made a game of my haste to distract the boy, telling him a giant hound was at our heels so that by the time we reached the kitchen we were both breathless with nervous laughter.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  In late June, when blossom lay in deep drifts and the last tiny flakes danced like moths around the wind-wracked trees, Eleanor finally rallied.

  “Now, perhaps we’ll get away.” Joan, busy with her chores, muttered to herself. But the unexpected arrival of a strange noblewoman in a sable hooded cloak interrupted our final preparations.

  Just before noon, she swept into the house without warning, accompanied by a lofty fellow in the blue and murrey livery of York. Her icy command to be taken to Dame Butler stunned us. We froze like guilty children caught misbehaving. Strangely, stolid Gerta, spurred into action by the woman’s haughty manner, bore her off along the draughty corridors without any questions as to her identity or errand.

  Alison peered through the shutters into the courtyard. “She must be very important. There’s a whole troop of men outside.”

  We all gawked at our unexpected visitors—some on horseback, others milling about, and all bantering loudly.

  “Who is she?” asked Jack when the Fleming returned much agitated.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if it isn’t—” A fierce knocking on the door interrupted Lionel’s speculation.

  Before anyone could open it, a sudden rain squall drove several members of the entourage into the house. A burly fellow in a fine woollen cape issued orders for the care of the horses and demanded the whereabouts of his mistress.

  A panicked Joan hustled Lionel off to the stables, instructed Gerta to take the men to Dame Eleanor’s chamber and ordered Alison to the cellar to fetch some ale. Then in a ferment of indecision she set about wiping up the damp trail our intruders’ cloaks left behind.

  “Try to find out who that noblewoman is.” I whispered to Jack, sneaking him outside while Joan wasn’t looking. I’d a bad feeling about our mysterious visitor which I couldn’t shake off.

  “I’d like to know what’s going on,” Joan said. She wrung out her cloth in a pail and flashed me a nervous look, her eyes full of disquiet.

  “I think we’re in for more upheaval.”

  Jack burst in then, his cheeks poppy-red with excitement. “It’s the king’s mother, the Duchess of York. One of the men told me she’d quarrelled with the king. Do you suppose she’s come to fetch Dame Butler to the palace?” His eyes shone with innocence. “The man said—” But at that point the inner door swung open and the Duchess of York herself confronted us.

  We sank to our knees. Imperiously, she subjected us to a full and pointed inspection. Flanked by her attendants, she stood splendid and tall in her sombre velvet cloak, the fur-trimmed hood now thrown back to reveal a high white forehead and exquisite features. Though past her youth, she retained an astounding beauty. No wonder people called her “The Rose of Raby”. She’s discovered the secret betrothal, I thought with sudden shock as her cold eyes fastened on me.

  Her silent disdain belittled all of us. Then, in a shimmering whirl of raven-black, she turned on her heel and swept away.

  A rain-spattering wind rushed into the room almost extinguishing the fire. The outer doors hurled wide, startling us with their sudden, explosive noise. Jack ran at once to close them behind the last attendant. Abruptly, this big, broad-shouldered man spun round on the boy and drew a dagger. Transfixed by this unexpected attack, we froze, while Jack stood trembling with either cold or fright, the wild wind rampaging about the kitchen like a mischievous elf. A pan crashed to the floor and several knives skittered across the trestle. Grinning wolfishly, the knave threw back his hood, revealing a tangled mass of black hair. He turned upon us next like a predator assessing a flock of sheep.

  A shiver that owed nothing to the cold passed through me. The piercing blue eyes blazed as dangerous and as irresistible as lightning. Caught in their power, I burned with sudden, outrageous desire. Afterwards I shuddered at the wanton nature of my response. But I knew him instantly. Hadn’t he stared at me in this same bold fashion from out the water-bowl at my cousins’ house three years ago? And hadn’t I seen him again in the city streets—not to mention in my lurid dreams? Fascinated, I watched him sheathe his blade and run a careless hand through his ravelled hair. He smiled at me enigmatically, stirring a singular quiver in the pit of my belly, then vanished into the rain without a word.

  “Well!” said Alison. “Who’s that arrogant rogue? Nan—?”

  I rushed outside, ignoring the sudden clamour of startled voices. The duchess’s entourage already seemed a distant blur in the gauzy rain-fall but a familiar voice hailed me from the stable.

  “Looking for me?”

  He leaned in the doorway, his hair slick about his face in oily tendrils, his eyes smouldering.

  Without a moment’s hesitation I ran into the shelter of his cloak.

  “So, you’re here at last.” Warm, triumphant laughter welcomed me into a firm embrace. “And haven’t I waited long enough?” Caged in his arms, the heat of his body overwhelmed my senses. Dizzy with desire, I melted into the enchantment of those stormy blue eyes, my hands pressed against his chest. What magic made me so bold? Drops of rain fell on my face as he bent his head, his mouth at last seeking mine. Was this the passion I’d dreamed of for so long? The kiss roused a sweet, wild hunger and we clung together as if drowning.

  “Come with me, lass.”

  In an instant I was lost—all thoughts of duty, all concept of loyalty or integrity swallowed up in that one delicious moment.

  He mounted a silver-dappled horse and stooped to swing me up into the saddle before him when a guttural voice called out.

  “Nan, my lady is sick. She asks for you.” Gerta, her heavy face paler than usual, dragged at my arm.

  Torn— one hand on the horse’s neck, yet forced to pity by the desperate ple
ading in Gerta’s eyes— I dithered in the damp dung stench of the stable-yard.

  “You can find me at the Boar’s Head.” My lover pressed my palm to his lips, his eyes full of warning sparks. “Your mistress will be gone from the city in a day or so. I’ll wait for you there.”

  He spurred away into the bone-chilling drizzle, and like a sleep-walker I followed Gerta back into the house.

  I found Eleanor stooped at the privy. When she’d done with retching and could rise from her knees, I helped her to her chamber.

  “I suppose you know who our visitor was?” She crouched on the settle like a wounded animal, eyes dull as agate, face white and drawn. Tendrils of sweat-soaked, yellow hair clung to her neck and shoulders.

  “Jack said it was the Duchess of York.” I draped a shawl about her, distressed by the shocking deterioration in her appearance and conscious of the damp seeping through to my skin.

  “She told me to stop bothering the king! Can you believe that?” She plucked at the fabric of her skirts. “He’s very young and over-rash with his favours,” she said. “And like all young men, his ardour burns hot for a little while but then—” She struggled to deny the rising sobs. “But he loves me! You heard him promise—so how can she tear us apart?”

  What could I say? Could kings break oaths? If only I could ask Brother Brian’s advice—

  “She ordered me to leave for Sudeley at once. But how can I go, like this—?” Without warning, she sprang to her feet, casting aside the shawl, her eyes rolling. Up and down the chamber she paced, twisting her hands—a familiar sign of growing agitation.

  “Is there no one who might help you?” This frantic pacing set my teeth on edge. My own thoughts span, plotting ways I might follow after my black-haired lover. Anything to get away from that wretched house!

  “Do you think I should go to the king?”

  “No!” The rising hysteria in her voice terrified. “He’ll surely send for you—”