The Assassin's Wife Read online

  She’d not spoken of the expected babe before. Her shame-faced sister apprised me of the situation in Norfolk although I’d already guessed at it in Silver Street. The Duchess swore me to secrecy. I wondered if Stillington knew.

  Secrets—so many secrets—Whenever I heard the word, I thought of Mistress Evans and wondered what else her prophecies held in store. I’d already travelled north. And hadn’t she told me to “look to the nun”? But which one of them deserved my special attention? My mind leaped to the final part of her prediction: “Beware the man with blood upon his hands.” A pair of fierce blue eyes filled me with the shameless heat of desire. But Mistress Evans’ prophecies had a way of turning out quite unlike what one expected.

  “Won’t you keep the babe, madam?” Drawn back into the harsh present, an unpleasant thought struck me with all the suddenness of an arrow-bolt. Suppose Eleanor chose to remain in the convent after the birth? My mind raced with the implications.

  A tear fell on the coarse fabric. “Canon Stillington said it would be best—” Her words choked into incoherence.

  Stillington! Even his name had power to chill me.

  Eleanor’s muffled weeping forced me back into the bleak reality of the little chamber. Shadows crept across the floor blurring my vision.

  “Shall I light a candle, madam?”

  “Aye, light a candle for me, child. I’ve need of prayer.”

  Involuntarily, I jumped, dropping my needle. Something about Eleanor’s hunched shape and odd manner of speech recalled mad King Harry. Hadn’t he bidden his captors pray for him? Sister Clement’s innocent words darted shockingly into my mind. I half rose. Eleanor pinched my arm.

  “Ask Brother Thomas to come to me.” Her eyes stared wide and trusting as young hind’s.

  “Madam, we’re at Norwich.”

  “Norwich?” Fear leaped into her puzzled gaze.

  I crouched beside her, speaking soft and slow. “Brother Thomas isn’t with us anymore. Don’t you remember leaving Silver Street? Canon Stillington sent for Brother Thomas the night before we left.”

  Eleanor stared blankly, her fingers fumbling at her crumpled needlework.

  “Jack told me and I meant to find out what happened to Brother Thomas but—”

  The memory of the missing priest flooded me with guilt. What had become of him? Suppose Stillington had arrested him too?

  Eleanor’s whimper stopped me from screaming. She pressed her hands against her belly, her sewing sliding to the floor.

  “Help me,” she said. Her delicate features distorted with pain and fear. “Fetch Joan.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Eleanor’s child was a boy as she’d predicted—a tiny, frail infant with a fuzz of golden hair, born on a mellow September afternoon as the bells tolled the Angelus. Holding him in my arms I experienced a tremendous rush of love. How could she think of parting with him?

  “Would you like to hold the babe, madam?” When I tried to lower the child in her arms she shrank away, averting her head. “He’s a lovely boy.” I knelt beside her, cajoling in my most persuasive manner. “Look at his little hands. He’s a strong grip already.” She shuddered with distaste.

  Pale and silent, she sat gazing into the hearth while the wet-nurse suckled him, and I ached with desire. If he were mine, I thought, I’d walk through flames to keep him.

  “The Duchess of Norfolk has been informed.” Sister Ursula hovered in the doorway. I wondered how long she’d been watching us. She pursed her lips, her wintry eyes fixed on Eleanor’s back. “How long has she been like this?”

  The wet-nurse shrugged.

  “Since the babe was born,” I said. “She’s said nothing for days now.”

  A flicker of unease crossed the nun’s face. “Better she doesn’t become attached,” she muttered. “See that she eats something.” She addressed me in a cold, imperious tone. “And keep her occupied. Her sister will take the child shortly.”

  Although I craved the Duchess’s visit which would release me, I couldn’t believe she really meant to take the child away and hide him among strangers. But as the warm days drifted by, I grew increasingly impatient.

  One late October morning, a young novice arrived to fetch Eleanor.

  “What does Sister Ursula want?” I asked, puzzled by the vagueness of the message she delivered.

  “She didn’t say.” The girl darted frightened glances about her.

  “You’ll need to keep a careful watch.” I helped Eleanor to her feet. “Dame Butler doesn’t always remember where she is.”

  I watched Eleanor led away like a sleep-walker and had barely turned back before the Duchess of Norfolk swept into the chamber and dismissed the wet-nurse.

  We stood together awkwardly, looking at the child in his plain wooden cradle.

  “Dame Eleanor’s been called away—”

  “I’ve already seen her.” The Duchess sounded embarrassed. She twisted the rings on her index finger. “No doubt you’ve heard of the king’s marriage.”

  “Marriage, Your Grace? But surely—”

  “He married a widow named Wydeville at Grafton on the first of May and kept it secret for months.” Her voice trembled, breathless, embarrassed. “The Earl of Warwick was furious because he was negotiating a French match. But London ran wild with excitement. Exaggerated stories are still circulating.” She paused as if wilting under my scrutiny. I imagined Maud entertaining a feverish crowd. “They made it sound like a tale from an old romance, with a moonlit meeting in a forest and a mother reputed to be a powerful witch—” She crossed herself elaborately.

  An icy chill shook me. I clutched at my gown. “But how could the king wed another while troth-plight to my lady?”

  “But he has married.” Her face froze, rigid as a mask. “And the stability of the realm depends upon our silence. “Canon Stillington’s anxious no gossip should sully the king’s marriage celebrations.”

  Stillington! What power the prelate wielded!

  Shocked by her willingness to conceal the truth, I opened my mouth to protest.

  “Some things are best kept secret.” The duchess echoed Stillington’s warning. “No harm can come to those who guard their tongues.” She flashed a pointed look. “You’ve knowledge of a situation it wouldn’t be wise to share.”

  “But how can you condone your sister’s betrayal?”

  The child’s cries interrupted.

  “My sister’s been foolish,” said the Duchess. Restraint tightened her voice. She looked down at the child. “She was always giddy and profligate with her affections. This boy’s to be named Thomas after her husband and educated in the Gournay household as befits a gentleman. We needn’t speak of him again.”

  The harsh, careless words horrified. “And will my lady take the veil?”

  The duchess’s delicately arched eyebrows drew together in an ugly frown. “It would be best she remain at Norwich.”

  “And what’s to become of me?” A frightening possibility struck me like a fist. Could Stillington have found the perfect solution? “Sweet Jesu! He means to shut me up!” The Duchess’s face blanched as I turned on her in fury. “I can’t live like this forever! I can’t bear it! How dare you condemn me to this?”

  “Of course no one can force you.” She backed away, the stammer in her voice betraying fear. She couldn’t meet my eyes. “The good sisters wouldn’t keep you here against your will.”

  “Then take me with you!”

  Like a thief, she snatched up the howling babe and ran toward the door. “I’ve no authority—You must speak to—”

  “Stillington?” I demanded, white-hot with rage. As she turned the handle, I grabbed at her arm. “You can’t leave me here!”

  But she wrenched herself away, wrestling me off with all the fury of an ale-wife, and fled with the frightened babe shrieking in her arms.

  Eleanor didn’t seem to notice. She never asked for him. He might never have been born, I thought, watching her wandering up and down the cha
mber, a strange, ecstatic expression on her face. But she wouldn’t let me leave her. Though I tried to explain my need to return to London, she clung to me, weeping so fiercely, Sister Ursula admonished me for heartlessness. “Surely you don’t grudge your mistress a few more days of your company?”

  Alone in the dark I shed many tears for the little boy who must be raised in secret and would never know his parentage.

  “Poor little mite,” said the carter’s wench. We stood together in the cruel light of early morning. “The sisters said his father was killed in battle and his mother died when he was born.” She crossed herself. “Did you see him?”

  “Little Thomas? Oh yes—a bonny little boy,” I answered, with a wistful smile. “I believe his cousins intend to raise him.”

  “But he’s called Giles.” She grinned at my ignorance. “I remember because it’s my father’s name. Fancy you forgetting!”

  Since that terrible day, Eleanor’s life seemed frozen in the barren walls of Norwich and mine with it. She never spoke of Sudeley again. Instead she drifted in a twilight world between prayers and sleep, and day by day withdrew a little more.

  A life of prayer and contemplation—How often the Duchess’s words returned to torture me. Daily I passed the monstrous painting of Elijah in the desert, before whose image the patient nuns paused to genuflect.

  “This holy prophet taught us the value of poverty and solitude,” Sister Ursula said. Grim satisfaction twisted her mouth. “The Lord lives, in whose Sight I stand.” She reverently read out the black script, while I stood with lowered eyes trying to hide my hatred of the bearded, robed figure who’d stolen my liberty.

  At two, before the birds began their morning chorus or the sun rose from its sleeping place, the stern-faced Sisterhood rose for Matins. Rebelliously, I listened to the virtuous shuffle of their sandaled feet outside my door, praying Eleanor wouldn’t spring up and urge me to go with her to the chapel. At Prime, I squirmed on my hard seat, stomach growling over the breakfast bread and ale, forced to sit in silence listening to Bible readings in the Chapter House. Work followed Terce—needlework for those whose skilful fingers embroidered fine vestments or created elaborate hangings woven with gold and silver threads—for the rest, spinning or weaving, or copying manuscripts, while the lowly lay sisters tilled the fields or drudged over laundry. After Sext we ate—simple foods, pottage, bread and broth, poorly prepared and served in unappetising, meagre portions. How often I longed for the Mercers’ luxurious feasts then! Until Vespers the Sisters returned then to their tasks and after supper came Compline and rest. I pondered on the nature of their thoughts as they shuffled through the cloisters or bowed over their labours. Did they yearn for the world which boiled and bubbled beyond those stout, grim walls? Did they think of loved ones now lost to them? Did they long for words of affection, for laughter, for a baby’s cry?

  Hours of regimented silence punctuated by bells and prayers stretched out before me and I cursed King Edward for putting me in this place. The good Sisters had no intention of releasing me.

  Daily I plotted how I might escape the convent. If I could contact Brother Brian, I knew he’d rescue me. But where was the priest?

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  “Pretty, isn’t it?” Sister Absalom moved soft as a cat even though the ground lay winter-hard. She stood at my shoulder, our breath blowing like smoke into the breaking dawn. Beyond us stretched the gardens gleaming with the painted rime of hoar-frost like a spectral fairy-land. “I rise early too.”

  “The carter’s daughter tells me King Edward’s queen expects a child,” I answered.

  “Ah, you are greedy for news of the world.” Sister Absalom smiled. “I thought as much when I saw you here. You’ve no desire to remain here with your mistress?”

  I shook my head, my eyes still focussed on the trees’ white skeletons, the naked, frozen flower-heads by the wall.

  “Such a life can be rewarding.” She laughed at my hiss of contempt. “Come with me to the library. Let me show you the precious volumes I’m entrusted to guard.”

  “I can’t read.”

  “I could teach you.”

  I followed her into the building with reluctance. But when she revealed a manuscript she was working on, an alchemy of blackest spikes embellished with drops of gold, I thought instantly of Alan Palmer and wondered if he’d become a scribe at Ely. The words of the elderly monk at the priory still troubled me. Something shameful had occurred between Brother Brian and Master Palmer. Why else had my old priest been so ignominiously dismissed?

  “Will you teach me to write?”

  Sister Absalom proved a patient teacher as well as a skilled calligrapher. At last, I learned to unravel the secrets of those sounds and signs I’d watched Brother Brian teaching the boys in the village church all those years ago. Within a month I’d mastered the skill.

  “How will you fare when your mistress takes her vows?” Sister Absalom’s eyes examined me carefully as I perused the books.

  “If I believed my lady’s faith had drawn her here—” I watched my ghostly wisps of exhaled breath float away like spider-webs for it was always chilly in the library. “Once she was a noble lady destined for another kind of life, but adversity hasn’t dealt kindly with her.”

  “Few choose their own pathway.” Sister Absalom’s words reminded me at once of Mistress Evans. “Does it trouble you that she should become a vowess?”

  “I fear she’s unwell.”

  I didn’t mention Eleanor’s increasing strangeness or that now she seemed as enamoured of her prayers as ever she was of Ned Plantagenet but I knew Sister Absalom understood.

  The sonorous bells tolled for Prime.

  “I want to write a letter.”

  Sister Absalom waited. Over the weeks I’d worked with her she’d induced me to tell her much of my history. She possessed a clever way of drawing out information without obvious probing and I realised how easily one might fall into this trap.

  “I’d like to write to Brother Brian, my village priest.”

  “To what end?”

  I thought the inquiry sharp and must have looked startled, for Sister Absalom smiled as if caught out and spoke swiftly as if to soothe my suspicions. “I meant to say, what news could a priest be desirous to receive of you? Are you anxious to learn something of your family?”

  “I’d like to thank him for his kindness.” Something in her change of manner put me on guard. “Beware the nun.” I heard Mistress Evans’ words as clearly as when she’d first spoken them. Did Sister Absalom act on instruction from someone else?

  She slithered away to fetch writing materials. “Will you return to your family when your mistress takes her vows?”

  “Oh no, my brothers will be young men now.” With longing I thought of Tom as a little boy clambering upon my knee, of my father’s loving arms, of Alys and Robin teasing me, even Fat Marion’s scolding—How far away village life seemed. But the memories brought Brother Brian’s presence nearer. Our shared secrets bound us.

  She handed me pen and ink. “Let’s write to your old priest and tell him of your employment here. I’m sure he’ll be pleased to know you’ve learned your letters.” She gushed encouragement.

  While I scratched, puzzling over elusive words that ran from me like hares across stubbled corn, I pondered too on Sister Absalom. Had I been deceived by her former guise of friendship? Had she worked all this while as an instrument to learn my secrets? Even while I wrote she plied me with eager questions, mopping up ink, ignoring the sweaty finger-marks that marred my copy.

  “Will you continue as a lay sister?” Her friendly manner rang false now.

  “I’d rather find employment in the village. You know I lack faith for the religious life.”

  “Don’t tell your priest such heresy. He’d be disappointed to discover his instruction has proved so feeble.”

  “Oh I attended Mass and listened to his lessons. Brother Brian knows all my sins. I’d trust him with my life.�
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  Later, in the chapel I watched Eleanor from a pool of shadow by the pillar. Her hands trembled as she lit a candle. A drop of wax fell like a single tear upon her robe. Kneeling before the painted figure of the Virgin, she placed her offering amidst the other flickering votive-lights. Slender fingers sketched the cross, lips moved in whispered prayer. I felt ashamed to intrude upon such devotion.

  “My Lady, Sister Ursula asked me to summon you to the refectory. It’s time to eat.”

  “To eat?” She repeated the words emptily. “No, I may not dine today until Ned’s here.”

  “We mustn’t keep the Sisters waiting.” I cajoled like a beggar—angry to be reduced to such occupation.

  “He promised. He promised.”

  This was one of her bad days. But, truly he had promised. I’d heard him. I wondered if gorgeous, golden Edward of York ever thought of Eleanor. Did he wake sweating in the darkness and tremble at what he’d done? Did he pause at the hunt, or halt in the dance, or sicken at the feast when he remembered Eleanor?

  The chill of the chapel seeped into my bones like water. I tried to draw Eleanor to her feet.

  “My sweet Ned promised he would visit today. I must make ready.” She rose, momentarily resolute and proud as if in the old London days, and then she loosed her hair from the nun’s coif. Once the yellow cascade would have spilled almost to her knees, but now I could have wept to see the pale stubble about her head. Like a child in her mother’s old cloak she looked down at the coarse habit of the Carmelites. “Why am I dressed in this?” Her eyes widened. “I can’t receive my sweet Ned in these garments.”

  “Lady,” I reached out a hand, “we’re at Norwich.”

  “At Norwich?”

  “The House of the Carmelites. There’s no Lord Ned.”

  “No Lord Ned!” The stricken eyes turned on me, the pupils shrunk to pin-pricks. I could have bitten out my tongue.

  “I mean, Lord Ned is England’s king. He can’t dine with us today.” My fingers grazed her robe, but the white figure slipped like smoke back to the statue of the Virgin where myriad candles winked and guttered.