The Assassin's Wife Read online

  Sleepless now, I listened to the soft breathing of the girl beside me, the curious, night-time creaks of timber, and the far away tolling of a bell. At home the pig snuffled in its pen, foxes yipped and owls shrieked from the woodland.

  Home. I mustn’t think of it. And yet it drew me with its memories of winding paths and secret hollows, the song of men working in the fields, the shouts and laughter of children playing skittles in the yard by the church. Again I pressed my fingers deep into the springy moss on Stanwode’s Standing Stone, hid with Alys amongst hot, dusty cornstalks whose slightest crackle could alert the seekers, yelped at the drunken jab of pollen-laden bees staggering for the hives in summer’s long twilight, until the warm, drowsy smell of honey conjured Tom’s sticky smile and made my heart ache… I wondered what my mother was doing now. The sight of her cold, hard face as she’d cast me out, returned to taunt me. Tears pricked my eyes like pins. My father couldn’t protect me now. Never more would I ride upon his shoulders, nor cling about his neck or shelter in the warmth of his arms when terrible dreams tormented me. My safety had been stolen. Would Tom cry for me? Or would he forget the sister accused of witchcraft? Brother Brian would be safe in his church with its bright painted walls showing Adam and Eve cast out of Eden by an angel with a flaming sword. But I’d lost my Eden.

  At breakfast I faced a storm of questions from my cousins. Aunt Grace, already bustling to and from the kitchen, chuckled.

  “Let Nan eat something first,” she said. “She’ll find things different here from what’s she’s used to at home.”

  “Mama said she played in fields and woods when she was a girl and lived in the country,” said Sarah who was nearest to me in age. “Did you do that?”

  I nodded, refusing to speak for fear of rousing laughter. Last night they’d giggled at my speech until my aunt scolded them and sent us all to bed. I don’t think they meant to be unkind but it made me furious. Their speech sounded peculiar to me.

  “Well, there’s none round here, and even if there were I don’t think we’d be allowed to go in them.” She spooned up more pottage. “We sometimes play in the streets, but papa doesn’t like it.”

  “It’s too dangerous,” Judith said. She watched me crumble bread, her keen gaze making me clumsy. “A little girl was crushed by a horse and cart two days ago. It’s safer to stay inside.” She smoothed the folds of her blue, worsted skirt and smiled. At almost sixteen she seemed very much the young lady. I marvelled at the whiteness of her hands. “Do you know how to sew?”

  “Can you play tables?” Meg gave me no time to draw breath.

  “Meg’s looking for someone else to beat,” explained Sarah. “Even Papa can’t do it now. But there’s a parade through Chepeside this afternoon. Wouldn’t you rather see that?”

  How could I tell her that the city with its high, crooked houses, and its crowded streets choked me? I longed for the open countryside and the familiar, friendly faces of Alys and Robin. I listened to my cousins pestering Aunt Grace to take them to the parade and tried to look pleased. Hadn’t I promised Brother Brian I’d begin again?

  Over the next weeks I caught homely Aunt Grace watching me with a puzzled expression. I suppose any other girl would have responded to her affectionate nature, but I brooded, too locked in grief and anger. Each night she kissed my brow as she tucked me into bed, but never once did I fling my arms about her or shed tears. Though I longed for comfort, somehow I couldn’t ask it of her. What a hard-hearted, indifferent little wretch I must have seemed.

  Worse than the loneliness were the dreams. Now with Brother Brian far away I daren’t confide in anyone. Though he’d promised to visit as often as he could, nightly I shared the torment of the boy in the mysterious, dark chamber and woke sweating with fear. It was a blessing Sarah slept so heavily. Each day I searched among the people I met for the boy’s face, or listened to their voices for one I might recognise. But no one spoke as beautifully as he did.

  New dreams blossomed. In these I ran through shadows from a menacing figure with cruel, yellow eyes. It dragged me towards an enormous bonfire, the heat searing my eye-balls, and thrust me into the blazing heart. I woke then with the stench of smoke and singed flesh in my nostrils; the pitiless roar of flames and howling laughter still ringing in my ears.

  Gradually though I grew accustomed to the new order and began asking my patient aunt a deal of questions about the city. Eager to make me feel at home, she did her best to acquaint me with the place, taking me first inside the great church of St Martin le Grand to light a candle for my father. Later she took me to the markets, threading through the busy streets crowded with shops and taverns, and showed me the high archways and bridges across the river, pointing out the houses of the nobility and the palaces with pride.

  “What’s that place?” I asked one day, drawn unwillingly to a striking building with lofty, white-painted towers and liveried guards about the gates.

  “Why, that’s the Tower of London. It belongs to King Henry and is where he sometimes holds his court.”

  “Are there any boys there?”

  “What a strange child you are!” My aunt laughed, putting an arm about my rigid shoulders. “I daresay there are several belonging to the guards and servants who live there, but King Henry’s son isn’t old enough to go to court yet.”

  Her answer puzzled. The Tower haunted me. That night I dreamed of entering its massive portals, not as a guest, but as a searcher lost among winding passageways Whatever I sought evaporated as swiftly as morning mist when I opened my eyes, and my nocturnal ramblings left me with a throbbing head-ache. It was the first of many dreams I had concerning the place, although I told no one.

  * * * * *

  Cold winds buffeted the year towards its end, but driving sleet and shadowy days couldn’t suppress the swelling excitement in the house above the tannery. Daily the girls clamoured to watch the pageants in the streets, chattered of Mummers, dancing fools and carolling at St Pauls, pestering my uncle for coins to buy sweetmeats until the poor man clapped his hands over his ears and fled into his workshop.

  “He doesn’t mean it,” Meg told me, her cheeks flushed with teasing. “He likes to see us merry.”

  “Just wait until we deck the house with greenery,” said Judith. Her hazel eyes flashed like spangles on the players’ jewelled costumes we’d seen so recently in the Chepe.

  “Christmas is the best time of all,” said Sarah, twirling before the fire like a mischievous imp.

  Watching their easy pleasure, a knot of anticipation formed deep in my belly. But it wasn’t excitement. It was fear.

  Chapter Nine

  That first Christmas above the tannery certainly proved a grand affair. Never had I seen such extravagance, yet I soon discovered my aunt and uncle always kept this feast with tremendous merriment. Their house, festooned with garlands of holly, bay and ivy, rang with laughter. Numerous guests thronged the table, gorging on scalding soups and richly crusted pies, hot roasted capons and enormous hams glazed with honey. My cousins drew me into games and dancing, cosseted me with sweetmeats, welcoming me into the giggling circle of their friendship. As if released from shadow I grew bolder, daring at last to think myself a member of the family.

  “Who’s the grey-haired lady in the velvet gown?”

  My flustered aunt looked up as I trotted down into the kitchen. It was the feast for Christ’s nativity and the hall rang with noise. Between the courses, my uncle sent me up to the bed chamber to fetch a shawl for one of his aged cousins.

  “What lady’s that?” My aunt lifted a vast steaming pudding stuffed with raisins, dates and almonds from the fire. Plainly she didn’t trust Betsy, the frivolous kitchen maid, with such a precious burden. Having set down the heavy dish, she stood back to heave a sigh and pat a wisp of stray hair from her damp brow with the back of her hand. Her pink face shone with sweat. Evidently pleased by the delicious aroma that filled the kitchen, she rewarded me with a vague smile.

  “The one wh
o went into the girls’ room, just now.” I gestured with the shawl. “I met her on the stairs. She asked me to tell you how glad she is to see you all so happy together.”

  The smile vanished. “What did you say?” All attention now, the piercing light in her eye unnerved me.

  A tremor of unease prickled my neck. “She’s about your build.” I feigned boldness although my fluting voice betrayed me. “Her gown’s dark blue and she’s wearing a silver necklet with little blue stones in it. She said, ‘Find my Gracie and tell her I’m come to share the feast.’”

  “Sweet Lord!” She put her fingers to her lips, then crossed herself, her eyes filling with tears. “How could you—?”

  A draught carried in a sudden gale of conversation. Stooping under the lintel my uncle rose to tower over us, his flame red hair all awry, teeth gleaming through the tangle of his beard in a tipsy grin.

  “The guests are calling for the pudding, Grace.” Ale swelled the hearty voice. He turned to me, eyes a-twinkle. “And you, little maid, should be with your cousins, not sneaking in the kitchen to beg the first tasty morsel.” He winked at giggling Betsy as he bore me away.

  In the early hours when the first grey glimmerings of light trickled through the shutters, I overheard my aunt and uncle talking. Creeping from bed, I pressed an ear against the thin plastered wall of their adjoining bed-chamber.

  “Don’t encourage her.” My uncle grumbled sleepily.

  “But, Will, she described my mother as she was in life. Right down to the necklace she always wore at Christmas. Just ask my cousin, Joan. That child sees things, and says things she couldn’t possibly know about—”

  “Ignore it. Remember why she’s here. Keep her busy and let’s have no more superstitious nonsense.”

  They drifted back to sleep, but this episode served as a warning. Though I joined in the Christmas revels, listened eagerly to the boisterous guests who stirred up the household with their comings and goings, and learned to play at tables with Meg, I said nothing more of the woman who regularly met me on the stairs or watched our games. Seeing spirits caused trouble and I was determined nothing should spoil my new content.

  But the fortune-telling proved my undoing, though my cousins pressed me to it. It was the day before Twelfth Night and we gathered together in the little chamber off the hall which my aunt liked to call her “parlour,” much to my uncle’s amusement.

  “Mama and Papa are going out to dine.” Judith tossed her head, raising her chin in a superior manner. “I’m to take care of you all. Betsy’s been told to prepare something special for supper and we can wait up until they come home.”

  “I wish we could go to the Kingsfords’.” Meg looked up from her embroidery with a dreamy expression on her pretty face.

  “Only because you want to make sheep’s eyes at Matthew,” Judith accused her with a teasing smile.

  “No I don’t! The Kingsfords always have lots of interesting guests and—”

  “Their son Matthew is the handsomest young lawyer in the city!” Judith finished with a flourish.

  Meg threw down her needlework and gave chase round the chamber. Shrieking, Judith raced away from her sister’s grasping fingers, upsetting the checker-board by the hearth where Sarah and I were playing, scattering trinkets from the shelf.

  “I wonder what Tom Proudley would say if he could see you romping like a tavern wench?” Meg panted for breath and leaned against the settle.

  Judith collapsed on to a stool, red-faced and hoarse with laughter. “No more than Harry Mercer if he could see you now.”

  “And I wonder what Mama and Papa would say if they knew you were breaking the house down instead of looking after us.” Sarah tried to look prim and shocked as we picked up the fallen trinkets.

  “And I suppose you intend to tell, do you?” Judith stood up, pretending to be cross. “Then I shall tell them that you’ve been talking to the goldsmith’s apprentice—”

  “You wouldn’t—?”

  “And you let the butcher’s lad hold your hand,” Meg joined in the teasing.

  “He was helping me over the step,” said Sarah. “Anyway, Nan likes that little lad with the yellow curls who brought the medicine for Mama.” She tugged at my gown while I stammered fierce protests.

  “What!” Meg pinched me, cheeks pink with mirth. “You mean the apothecary’s apprentice?”

  A storm of laughter drove us to the casement to watch the people hurrying to and fro in the street far below, their cloaks flapping in the wind like the wings of giant birds. We pointed out any whom we knew, my uncle’s wealthy customers, ladies we admired, the swaggering youths and tipsy messengers.

  After an early supper we grouped about the fire. The drowsy afternoon darkened. Tired of nibbling sweetmeats and playing merrills, our idle chatter turned once more to marriage and young men.

  “Betsy told me a way to discover the name of your sweetheart.” Judith twisted a strand of her dark red hair about her finger, her hazel eyes dancing with mischief. Her full lips pursed as if to suppress a secret jest.

  Meg was captured in an instant. “How?”

  “It’s a game.” Judith sprang to her feet, eager as a young hind. “We’ll need a bowl of water and some greenery.”

  “I’ll fetch the water.” Pert, little Sarah already by the door, hopped from one foot to the other with excitement. “I’ll ask Betsy to put some in a bowl.”

  While she scampered off to the kitchen, Judith handed Meg and me one of the green branches from the garland over the fire-place. Already the leaves were dry and curling.

  “Break off the leaves and flower petals,” she said. “But try to keep them whole.”

  By the time Sarah returned, I’d filled my lap with leaf dust.

  Solemnly, Judith set the basin of water on a stool. “Now, we must sit round it and be very quiet.” She threw Sarah a warning glance. “Each will take a turn. You must take some of the leaves and petals and throw them into the water. Betsy says if you ask Green Jenny, she’ll show you the first letter of your true love’s name amongst them.”

  “Who’s Green Jenny?” Sarah’s lips already twitched with laughter.

  “Sssh!” Judith put a finger to her lips. “She’s a water spirit.”

  Though her eyes sparkled, the gravity of her words alarmed me. Hadn’t I promised Brother Brian not to speak of spirits? But how could I gainsay my elder cousin?

  We gathered about the bowl, kneeling among the rushes, quivering with guilty anticipation. Our eyes fastened on Judith.

  “I’ll go first.” She spoke in a breathless whisper. She picked up some broken greenery. “Green Jenny, Green Jenny, show me please, the name of my true love. I cast these leaves into the water and call on you to reveal the secret. Green Jenny, Green Jenny, show me please, the name of my true love.”

  Tension kept me rigid. The twirling leaves and petals bumped and spiralled in the cloudy water. Gradually they stilled. A tingling sensation coursed through my limbs, heightening my awareness. Imperceptibly, the room grew colder. A curious vibrancy filled it, subtly altering its usual cheeriness to an eerie, watchful atmosphere. Smoky darkness thickened about the shivering candle-flames. We leaned close over the bowl, shoulders touching.

  “It looks like a J,” whispered Meg. “Or perhaps a T.” A nervous giggle trembled in her voice. I knew Judith was betrothed to someone named Tom Proudley and supposed Meg teased her.

  “Sssh!” Judith’s hissed warning set the leaves bobbing. The pattern changed. But I no longer saw leaves or petals. Instead, I saw a long stretch of flat, furrowed land, and a man with a team of stout horses. Beyond the hedgerows I heard the melancholy low of cattle.

  “What else? What else can you see?” Judith’s voice seemed urgent, fearful. The chamber pulsed with energy. I must have spoken out loud.

  “Inside the house there’s a baby in a cradle—a little boy with hair the colour of a fox’s coat—and there’s a woman sewing by the fire—”

  “Me next!” Meg
scooped the leaves from the water and threw in some petals of her own. Vaguely, I realised she must have selected these before the game began. In a shaking voice, she invoked Green Jenny’s aid, while I watched the pictures begin to form beyond the foolish scatter of dried roses.

  “Trays and trays of loaves,” I said. “The place is as hot as a forge but I can smell new bread. There’s a young man carrying a sack of flour on his shoulders. He has brown hair and a scar on his left cheek—”

  “Harry!”

  A scuffle and a giggle followed. Amidst some stifled protests, Sarah dipped her head, stretched out a hand to remove the petals—but before she could take her turn, I gasped. The girls froze.

  “What is it?” Judith’s voice yelped.

  Too engrossed in watching a face form in the water, I didn’t answer. A dark masculine face stared out at me—a strong, rugged face with shockingly blue eyes. Surely I’d seen this face before? It seemed so familiar I couldn’t tear myself away. A secret grin curved his mouth. But when he opened it to speak, I screamed.

  Shouts and footsteps on the stairs scattered us, knocking over the stool; the slop of spilled water mingled with an unpleasant, spinning sensation. I must have fainted.

  When I came to, my aunt bent over me holding a lavender soaked cloth under my nose. A scared Betsy gaped. One of the girls sobbed as my uncle’s growl punished all of us with questions.

  He sent us to bed in disgrace. His harsh, unjust words rang in my ears.

  “I’m not sleeping with Nan,” snivelled Sarah. “She frightens me.”

  “You can snuggle up with us.” Judith wrapped a comforting arm about her.

  “I’ll not have anyone conjuring spirits under my roof,” my uncle raved. His fiery beard and hair cast sparks about the darkened room. “What did I tell you, Grace? You and all this so-called fortune-telling? I warned you about encouraging her! This maid will bring shame on all of us! She puts our house in danger!”