The Assassin's Wife Page 16

  Why did I lie? I knew, despite his promise, Edward of March would never send for her again.

  “Joan says you’ve a sister in Norfolk—”

  The wild look in her eyes reminded me of a trapped deer but the sudden eerie sound of her laughter made my hair stand on end. In the grey winter light, her face gleamed corpse-pale, the pearls about her neck like a rope. “Ned asked me to keep our betrothal secret, but secrets will out. One day I’ll have revenge for this perfidy—”

  She laughed again, a chilling, discordant trill. “Tell Joan and Lionel to make ready for departure. They must go on to Sudeley this day. You and I leave for Norfolk at first light.”

  * * * * *

  Eleanor didn’t bother to bid Joan and Lionel farewell. She shut herself in her bed-chamber while the rest of us helped the carter and his lad heap the baggage high. Joan and I parted with tears and foolish promises.

  “I don’t know why I’m crying.” She gripped me in a fierce hug. “You’ll soon be joining us at Sudeley.”

  A misty-eyed Lionel lifted her on to the cart and we watched them trot away on the first part of their long journey.

  How empty the house seemed without them! I set Alison and Jack to prepare supper while Gerta and I packed for the journey to Norfolk.

  Engrossed in wrapping my lady’s precious Book of Hours in soft cloth, I turned suddenly to find Little Jack standing in the chamber doorway looking frightened.

  “Canon Stillington’s serving-man’s taken the chaplain away.”

  “What?”

  “He asked me to take him to Brother Thomas. He was very angry.”

  “Why?” I shook the boy by the shoulders, annoyed by his confusion. “Oh you stupid boy! Why didn’t you come to me? What have you done?”

  “He said Canon Stillington wanted to speak to him upon a very important matter.” Jack gulped back tears. “And Gerta said Dame Butler mustn’t be disturbed. So I took him to the chapel. Did I do wrong?”

  “It was a mistake.” I swallowed my rage with difficulty. “Gerta should have consulted me. It’s not your fault. Forget about it now.”

  Next morning Eleanor handed the keys of the house to Gerta and dispatched her to return them to her cousin in Barnet. Without another word she allowed the carter to help her up while I comforted a sorrowful Alison in the street.

  “Go to the Mercer’s shop in Bread Street,” I said, ignoring Eleanor’s calls for haste. “Speak to Harry. Tell him I sent you.” I dropped a kiss on little Jack’s tousled head before climbing on to the cart. “They’ll give you work.”

  As the horse jolted forward, I held up a hand in farewell. Alison draped her arm about Jack’s shoulders and he looked up piteously, his nose drivelling snot from weeping. A heavy sense of foreboding fell upon me as the cart rolled towards Norfolk.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Eleanor’s arrival caused uproar.

  “Your mistress has caused no end of trouble.” The Duchess of Norfolk’s russet-haired serving-maid collapsed into infectious giggles.

  Outraged, the haughty pack of household servants in the hall stared down their elegant noses as if they smelt something unsavoury.

  “Drink your ale,” the maid said. She clamped her hand over her mouth to smother further mirth. Her eyes danced. “I’ve something to show you.”

  Cleverly, she drew me away from the prying eyes. No doubt they talked of me over dinner while we hid together in an alcove on the magnificent manor’s great oak staircase. “You should have heard them quarrelling,” she said, clutching at my arm, tears of laughter brimming in her eyes. “I’ve never seen the Duke in such a passion, and now he’s ridden off to his estate at Framlington. Oh, this will provide gossip for days and days!”

  “But what did he say?”

  I’d some inkling of what might have hatched the raised voices and the slamming doors but I wanted to discover how much the rest of the household actually knew.

  “Why, that Dame Butler’s played the harlot, and even if she is his wife’s sister, he’ll not let her bring dishonour on his family.” Her amber eyes sparkled. “Oh you should’ve heard him rail!”

  “But my lady’s no harlot.” Now the secret was out I felt compassion for poor, jilted Eleanor. It was too late for anger.

  “No?” The maid’s impertinent grin widened. “But she didn’t get herself with child without she danced the bed-chamber jig with some knave, did she?”

  “No knave,” I replied hotly. “My lady’s no wanton.”

  “Then you know who the child’s father is?” The amber eyes grew round with curiosity, the pert face pink with excitement.

  “No,” I lied.

  Throwing back her russet curls, the flighty wench uttered an earthy, full-throated gurgle. “You must know something otherwise you wouldn’t look so guilty.” She gave me a sly look.

  “I know nothing to speak of.” The bloom in my cheeks betrayed me. I feared she’d see into my mind where the king’s golden image roamed, vivid as the knight in the huge arras hanging on the wall behind us.

  But she laughed again without rancour. “Of course not,” she said artfully.

  When I made some feeble excuse and fled down the stairs, she hung over the banister to call after me, “But why is it such a secret?” Her trills of mischievous laughter taunted me all the way back to the servants’ quarters.

  “The Duke’s banished Dame Butler from his house.” A bold-eyed kitchen wench plainly relished muttering this information as she passed me in the corridor. The loftier servants eyed me suspiciously, flicking furtive signals to one another until I grew so uncomfortable I sought refuge in the chilly, sun-lit gardens. While I wandered up and down the avenues of wind-whipped trees, shivering in my thin cloak, Eleanor’s troubled sister persuaded her to enter a convent.

  It seemed a simple, heartless, solution. Clinging to the belief that the king would still send for her, Eleanor agreed. But she wouldn’t part with me.

  “Without your aid how can I bear it?” Her eyes clouded, stormy with grief. “Stay with me, Nan, at least until September.”

  “Until September,” I said, steeling myself to endure further servitude.

  I imagined the convent to be something like the monasteries in which I’d stayed on my journey to London with Brother Brian almost four years before. My mind recoiled from the memory of those meagre lodgings, the bone-gnawing cold and the sad-faced monks, the melancholy tolling of the bells, the eerie chanting and perpetual twilight.

  “The Sisters at Norwich are Carmelites.” The Duchess patiently explained matters to her sister. “Their lives are sheltered, dedicated to prayer and contemplation. I’m sure you’ll find it a comfort at this difficult time and as a tertiary you may receive visitors.”

  Sitting mouse-small and still in a shadowy corner of her grand and gilded parlour, I listened as she counselled Eleanor to be strong. Having witnessed Eleanor’s past piety, I thought she’d find little hardship in such a mode of living but I quailed for myself.

  “The Sisters eschew vanity. They embrace poverty and chastity.” The Duchess’s sombre words fell upon me like drenching rain. How would I endure it? The memory of my black-haired lover tormented me. I didn’t even know his name! How long would he wait?

  Outside the convent’s lofty, ivy draggled walls, I looked back toward the river, watched the rippling sunlight dancing on its surface, and glanced up to follow the graceful, arcing flight of a swan, silver against the blue-washed sky. I’m bidding farewell to freedom, I thought, as the great gates swallowed us up.

  “Welcome.” An elderly woman with a white mantle over her brown habit glided toward us. Eleanor’s face lit up with a serenity that terrified, but an overwhelming urge to run clutched me in its vice. My panicked gaze flicked at the high, encircling walls, the crouching buildings, the arching cloisters and the long, long rows of inhospitable stone. Would my black-haired lover keep looking for me at the Boar’s Head tavern? September suddenly seemed a long time away.

 
; On the second day of our confinement Stillington appeared, black-clad and sleek, demanding speech with Eleanor. Had the Duke sent him? What did it matter? Eleanor’s fate was sealed. What business could Stillington have with her now?

  Surprisingly, he sought me out. “Ah, yes, the serving maid.” His head bobbed. “We met at Westminster.” The yellow eyes gleamed savage, unflinching.

  “Do you love your mistress, girl?”

  I swallowed hard, my mouth so dust-dry I couldn’t speak.

  “You wouldn’t want any harm to come to her?” He waited, his murderous smile an ominous caress, allowing me time to digest the implication of these words. “You’ve no memory of her encounters with King Edward?”

  I flinched at the menacing stress. I knew Ned Plantagenet had cast Eleanor off as carelessly as he cast off his gorgeous robes at the end of the day. He wouldn’t be sending for her. If he thought of her at all, it would be as a mere dalliance. But now I recognised Stillington meant to silence both of us.

  “Some matters are best hidden.” The silken voice drove shivers through me. “Dame Butler will be safe within these convent walls. It wouldn’t be wise to trouble others with our secrets. I think you understand me?”

  “I do sir.” I tipped up my chin, returning stare for stare. Silent rage throbbed through my body. I clenched my fists.

  “Ah, but you are so young and impatient.” He smiled indulgently. “No doubt you long for marriage and children?” He studied the ebony crucifix nailed to the bleak stone wall of our tiny chamber. “Few of us can make such sacrifice.”

  Sacrifice? What was he talking about? I wouldn’t stay here. I’d find my black-haired man. He formed the link between me and those boys whose lives I must save. I lowered my eyes so he couldn’t read the schemes festering in my mind. I refused to be intimidated by these veiled threats. I’d no intention of surrendering my freedom.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  But the Blessed Sisters had other ideas. Each passing day they subjected me to patient servitude, demanding I follow the wearying routine of convent life along with my mistress. They extolled the virtue of their calling, tempting me with its promise of heavenly merit and tranquil sanctuary from a sinful world. Dutifully I traipsed after Eleanor but I refused to be persuaded.

  “We will bring you to God.”

  Sister Ursula’s voice grated like the scrape of flint. Her smile, a gash in a face bleached almost to whiteness by lack of sunlight, challenged me.

  “But I don’t want to be a nun.” I lowered my head in respect, keeping my voice neutral. From the chapel drifted the monotonous chant of early morning prayers. A breeze whipped through the desolate cloister, flapping angrily at Sister Ursula’s sombre robes.

  “Many shun the quiet of the convent at first.” Behind the terrible smile she held hostility in check. “But in its shelter, a woman may discover the true nature of fulfilment.”

  I refused to answer. Sister Ursula’s pretence of persuasion only made me more determined to escape. I fisted my hands, keeping my gaze fixed on the flagstones.

  “Well, if prayer can’t offer solace, you may help Sister Agnes in the bakery.”

  The calculated cruelty of these words snatched my attention. I looked up.

  The dreadful smile still carved her face. I thought instantly of the stone gargoyle in the chapel. Her answering gaze struck me with a coldness which sickened me to my stomach. She knew I loathed Sister Agnes. “Perhaps some day you’ll follow your mistress’ example,” she said smoothly. Her eyes stung, sharp as slivers of metal. “She finds much consolation in her devotions.”

  “My mistress clings to her faith.” I gazed fascinated by the extreme ugliness of her jutting jaw and thought what little else Eleanor had to lean on until September brought us both release. Inwardly I railed against the impetuous pledge I’d made. “But I must admit a longing for the things of the world.” I forced a smile. “Of course I admire those who possess such piety.” A delicious memory of a passionate, rain-blessed kiss coursed through me. My black-haired lover was no longer a figment of dreams. He was real and I meant to find him.

  Feigning obedience, I trudged towards the bake-house, my every step under the chilly, disapproving eyes. But Sister Ursula couldn’t read my thoughts. I would never surrender my liberty. Even Brother Brian wouldn’t have asked that of me.

  The bakery’s welcome blast reminded me of the Mercers but Sister Agnes’ acerbic tongue spoiled my pleasure.

  “Not yet ready to discard vanity?” She peered at my gown with frank disapproval. I’d refused to don the brown habit favoured by the Carmelite community, though Dame Eleanor adopted it willingly along with the curious cloth known as the scapular, worn over the chest and back, fashioned by one of their saints who declared the Virgin delivered it to him in a vision. Such piety alarmed me.

  Joining Sister Clement kneading dough, I cooled my simmering rage by wrestling the uncooked mass beneath my fingers. Timid Clement nodded fearfully. Sister Agnes had crushed her spirit.

  “I understand Dame Butler kept an easy-going house in London.” Aware the comment was designed to goad, I didn’t answer. I’d learned quickly this malicious nun’s appearance, as well as the gentle name she’d adopted, belied her true nature. The wren-like stature and soft, pink lips suggested gentleness but she burned with a fierce energy, and her beady eyes constantly probed for secrets.

  “Indulgence is a grave mistake.” She pursed prim lips. “Without discipline, servants are apt to grow dishonest or even wanton. Is it true the king was a frequent visitor?”

  She can’t know, I thought, my heart racing. Surely she can’t know!

  “His Grace called once or twice regarding the restoration of my Lady’s estate,” I answered steadily.

  “They say he’s very handsome.” Dreamy-eyed Clement carried a tray of loaves to the oven, clumsily knocking an earthen jug to the floor in passing.

  “Slovenliness is a sign of an unclean mind,” Sister Agnes snapped.

  Tearful Clement stooped to gather the shattered pieces.

  “This world is awash with uncleanness,” Sister Agnes continued. She thrust the loaves into the hot dark well of the oven with a malice bordering on joy. “They say our handsome sovereign keeps a lascivious court, where lust and covetousness are cultivated like precious flowers, and virtue is ridiculed.”

  She fixed her nasty, little eyes upon me.

  “I can’t say for I was never at court,” I replied, shovelling the unwieldy dough into the moulds. In spite of Brother Brian’s early teaching, I lied to the nuns without compunction. I wouldn’t share the memory of the noise and extravagance of Westminster with them. These cold virgins savoured no joy. Discipline etched lines into their faces. It stiffened the soft curves of their bodies, dowsed the light in their eyes. They subdued pleasures of the flesh with rigorous fasting, mind-numbing tasks and constant prayer. I despised the way they shuffled through the cloisters, eyes bent modestly toward the dry dust to which they would return, seeing nothing of heaven’s reflection in the busy heat of life. Secretly, I delighted in the knowledge that Eleanor had enjoyed at least a moment of pleasure.

  “A king is known by the company he keeps. King Henry was a saintly man and kept about him devout men and women.” Sister Agnes wiped her virtuous hands on her linen apron.

  “Sister Ursula told us King Henry spent so much time in prayer, at the Eucharist he was blessed with visions of Our Lord.” Sister Clement’s piety earned a rare nod of approval. I fumed at this naïveté, recalling the damage poor Henry’s madness had inflicted on the country.

  “Dame Butler’s husband was killed in battle, wasn’t he?” Clement threw me a shy glance.

  “He was,” I replied. “Although I wasn’t in service at Sudeley then. I didn’t have the good fortune to meet Sir Thomas.”

  “You surprise me.” Sister Agnes” sharp voice intruded. “From your closeness to Dame Butler, I thought you to be one of the old family servants. He must have been dead some time then
?”

  I cursed my careless tongue.

  “For a child not to know its father is so sad.” Sister Clement’s plaintive interruption saved me a reply. “Did you know, King Henry’s father died when he was only a few months old?”

  “Any fool knows that. Fortunately Dame Butler has the quiet of the convent to comfort her. Here she may bring her child into the world without arousing undue attention.” Again, Sister Agnes fixed her sharp eyes on me. Heat flooded my cheeks. I longed to slap the self-satisfaction from her smug face.

  “She seems so very melancholy.” Ingenuously, Sister Clement voiced my own disquiet.

  “She’s encountered much adversity.” I pictured the king’s faithless, heart-stealing smile. “She misses her family and her old friends. When she returns to Sudeley, I’m sure she’ll—”

  “Sister Clement!” Sister Agnes jolted me from my reverie. The slack-faced Clement flapped like a bewildered goose. “Can’t you smell the bread’s burning?”

  Chapter Thirty

  Every afternoon before Vespers Eleanor and I hunched in our sparse, little room sewing garments for the poor. The dreary silence of the convent and the steady drip of rain from the eaves lulled me into a kind of trance, so that my fingers hemmed of their own volition allowing my mind to travel. It carried me across a wide expanse of moorland. Rolling hills opened out before me and huge crags like ancient monuments reached skyward. Streams cascaded amongst stones, sunlight painting them with sparkling rainbow hues, while skirling birds wheeled over pasture-land teeming with grey-faced sheep sporting curling horns. Slate-coloured clouds scudded across a vast, wind-scrubbed sky.

  “There,” said a familiar northern voice. “That’s it.”

  I followed the line of my lover’s outstretched arm to where the magnificent castle walls rose up—

  “My cousin, Gournay, and his wife will take the babe when he’s born.” Eleanor’s voice startled me.