The Assassin's Wife Read online

  Shouts of support fragmented the crowd. Maud’s listeners grew troublesome, trading insults, their ranks swaying menacingly. Harry’s brows knitted together. He pushed me through the ugly press of bystanders.

  Though I thought Maud’s tale more extravagant than usual, she obviously believed it. Her bold leer taunted the heckler. “Young Edward of March knelt down before his soldiers and begged God for guidance.” She shouted above the noise, crossing herself elaborately. “Isn’t that proof of the lad’s piety? I tell you, he’s been chosen for great things.” She threw back her head as if to challenge all disbelievers.

  “Come on, Nan.” Harry’s arm circled my shoulder protectively, steering me unwillingly from the roars of outrage. “We’ll be late with the deliveries.”

  “One minute people shouted for King Henry and the next for Edward of York.” I spilled my news to Big Hal that afternoon, breathless with excitement.

  His eyes twinkled at my enthusiasm. “Don’t pay too much heed. Maud Attemore likes to amuse folk with these stories. But what does it matter? Whoever’s in charge, the poor will still be poor.” He tugged my long braid mischievously. “And the nobles will ride rough-shod over all of us as usual!”

  But by March, this Edward was being hailed as king and I was afraid to go to sleep.

  Chapter Twelve

  “What’s wrong, Nan?” Harry watched me load my basket with warm loaves. “You’re not yourself these days. You’ve lost your smile and you look tired and pale.”

  I kept my head down. “I’m not sleeping well.” I ached to confide and wondered how much he really knew of my history.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Sometimes I wonder what’s going to happen to me.” I trailed over the words and scuffed my feet in the dust. “Now Judith and Meg are settled, Aunt Grace’s discussing suitors for Sarah.” I didn’t mention my lack of dowry. Girls without dowries ended up as servants or nuns. I didn’t want to be a nun, but Mistress Evans’s warning, “Beware the nun,” haunted me.

  Harry laughed. “Oh, some handsome tradesman will sweep you off your feet! Is that what you’re worried about? You maids are all the same.” He tweaked my nose. “My mother says you’ll make an excellent wife and you’re pretty as a princess.”

  I smiled wanly but I didn’t dare ask him who’d want a penniless maid? Nor did I mention I’d overheard them saying my mother planned to remarry.

  “That’s better. When you smile you melt people’s hearts.” He grinned. “Then they put money in my father’s purse. We need your smiles, Mistress Nan.”

  How could I stop myself from returning the grin? Harry knew how much I loved him. I didn’t want to think about my mother or who she might marry. He and his parents were my family now.

  “Is this an arrow-graze?” I touched the puckered skin on his cheek, just below the bone, my heart beating fast.

  “It is. How did you know that?” His eyes glinted. Dusting crumbs from his russet tunic, he drew himself up proudly. “When I was twelve, I was sent to help my Uncle Robert at his tavern in St Albans, and got caught up in a skirmish between the Duke of Warwick’s men and the Duke of Somerset—”

  “The inn sign has a castle painted on it,” I said. My head filled with a rush of images. “Soldiers crash through the streets and some are tearing down the houses. There’s an abbey and a barricade. Archers rain arrows and you drop your basket of pies. They burst open like ripe pods and a skinny cat licks up the gravy. Someone shouts for the king and men hammer on the inn door. A knight appears brandishing a sword and four rogues fall under his attack. But another knight in a scarlet tunic with the badge of a bear on it lifts an axe and fells him. Blood spurts from his throat—”

  Astonished by this great welter of words, Harry grasped my hand. “My mother mentioned fortune-telling,” he breathed. “But I never thought—”

  “I hate it,” I replied fiercely. The pictures splintered like shattered glass.

  Harry’s eyes filled with questions reminding me suddenly of Brother Brian. Tears stung, forcing me to turn away.

  “Why, Nan, what is it?” Harry slid a brotherly arm about my shoulders—a gesture which completely broke my control. Sobbing against his chest, I confessed the frightful nightmares that had followed me from home.

  “I’ll be sent away.”

  He held me tight. “No, you won’t. I won’t let them. I promise.” He smeared away my tears with his thumb, and I looked deep into his eyes, reassured. “I won’t say a word. And don’t worry what Philippa says.” Wrapping me in my ash-coloured cloak, he gave me a quick hug to send me on my way. “I know you like her but she’s not always honest. We’re used to her tale-bearing.”

  Harry’s promise became my talisman. When Mistress Mercer told me Brother Brian was coming to London the following week, I sang through my chores and Big Hal joined me in the choruses.

  “The Mercers speak highly of you, Nan,” said the priest when the Mercers left us alone together in the little chamber off the hall where Big Hal sometimes met rich patrons. “You’re happy here, I’m thinking?”

  “I don’t want to leave.” A sudden warning chill made me clench my fists.

  “Of course not. But Mistress Mercer worries about your troublesome dreams.” Questions filled the priest’s eyes.

  “I didn’t have them for a long time, but—”

  “Now they’re back?”

  I nodded, biting my lip. “And worse than before.” I struggled to explain. “The faces are clearer. The one I saw in the water at my uncle’s house I’ve seen lots of times in dreams. It’s the man who guards the boys.”

  “And these boys, would you be after knowing more of them now?”

  “I’ve only seen one properly. But I’d know him anywhere.”

  Brother Brian set down his goblet and stared into the flames. “Perhaps, in time, these fragments will make a whole. Then we may make some sense of them.”

  Deep lines etched his face now. I wondered what new trouble had put them there. “Who’s Michael?”

  The priest’s face blanched. “Dear God,” he said crossing himself. “Who told you about Michael?”

  “No one,” I said. The flash of terror in his eyes shocked me. “I just heard someone calling that name.”

  He touched my hand gently, his eyes veiled. “It was a long time ago.”

  “Does Tom remember me?”

  “Of course.” His voice grew warmer. “He loves watching the blacksmith at work. And your new brother grows just like you in looks.”

  “Does my mother ever ask about me?”

  The priest shook his head with embarrassment. “Everyone’s busy with match-making,” he said cheerfully. “Your friend, Alys, and young Robin Arrowsmith seem very fond of one another.”

  We’re growing up, I thought, with a pang of regret for the days of play. I imagined my former companions flirting with the rowdy boys at whom we’d once sneered. A happy picture of Alys and Robin holding hands under trees garlanded with May blossom flooded me with envy. What chance had I of such a settled future? But then I saw the aged hand reach out for Alys to drag her away—

  “Several of my scholars have begun working,” said Brother Brian. “Simon Dobbs is apprenticed to the dyer in Brafield. I must admit to feeling relieved. I found him troublesome.”

  “And Alan Palmer? Will he be a scribe?”

  The priest’s mouth trembled. “It’s what brings me so soon to London. He’s expressed a wish to enter Holy Orders.” His eyes grew soft with longing. “Even now I left him at the Priory of Saint John. He’ll study there and, if he finds the work to his liking, he’ll take his vows when he’s old enough. St John’s is famous for its illustrated manuscripts.”

  “So you’ll have cause to visit London more often?”

  “I may indeed.” He patted my hand. Though he smiled encouragement, his thoughts roamed elsewhere. It troubled me.

  Philippa’s clumsy scuffling woke me that night. I watched her struggle into her clothes, but as she
tip-toed away she must have sensed I’d woken.

  “You’ll not tell anyone?”

  She fidgeted by the door, face sharp with suspicion in the moonlight, impatient to be gone.

  I shook my head and pulled the bed-covers about my shoulders. The little chamber felt chilly at this hour.

  “I promised Ralph I’d meet him outside the bake-house,” she said, “just for a moment. His mother’s sick and he can’t get away during the day—”

  I knew she was lying by the way she stammered and fiddled with her shawl. Besides, it wasn’t the first time she’d sneaked out of the cramped room we shared above the shop. I’d pretended sleep before. Once she was gone so long I worried about her safety. Mistress Mercer often spoke of the rogues who prowled the muddle of narrow streets at night.

  “You shouldn’t be out after curfew.”

  She laughed nervously. “Ralph’ll look after me.” She twisted her fingers through the tangled web of the honey-gold hair I so admired. “Go back to sleep, Nan. You’ll understand when you’ve a sweetheart of your own.”

  As she tiptoed down the stairs, I imagined her furtive passage through the shop into the bake-house. Outside it would be icy cold. Was it worth creeping about like a cut-purse to venture into that raw, inhospitable dark to spend an hour in a lover’s arms? Philippa was wrong if she thought I knew nothing of such things. Since my last birthday the black-haired stranger with the fierce eyes came oftener into my dreams, and his presence aroused in me the most shocking desires. For a long time I wondered if all girls had such impulses and what the priest might say if I confessed them.

  Lying alone in the dark, I imagined meeting this lover and persuading him to help me find the boys in the Tower. My thoughts drifted sleepily to marriages and how Margaret Mercer and my Aunt Grace seemed as eager as rats at corn to have Meg and Harry’s solemnised. The prospect of the wedding feast lulled me, so I didn’t hear Philippa crawl back into bed.

  Instead I dreamed of snow. It swallowed up a vast sweep of rugged countryside, flooding fields, hedges, ditches and rutted lanes like an endless white wave. Icy flakes settled on my eye-lids, stinging me into blindness.

  Out of the blizzard stumbled a troop of ragged soldiers weighed down by weapons. They slipped and slid, frozen fingers clawing for hand-holds as they sank to their knees in treacherous gullies. Ghost-white faces stared at me.

  I followed the petals of blood until a great bay horse rose up before me, its hooves pawing the air. I flinched from the wild roll of its eyes and grinding foam-flecked teeth, the hot stench of its breath soiling my face. As its feet plunged down I looked up into the eyes of a huge, golden knight brandishing a sword like a shaft of sun-light. He was bare-headed, shouting and laughing, his hair a flame of red-gold, his features dazzlingly handsome, like a painting from an old romance. He rose upright in the stirrups, careless of the arrows falling about him, the shower of blood. “Swear to be faithful—”

  The hooves crashed down again, crushing heaped mounds of broken corpses. Far into the snow-bound distance they stretched, blood-bathed and frost stiffened. Their sightless eyes spoke of countless grief and loss. But the youth held out his hand, his hazel eyes still bright with laughter, and a voice called “Nan! Nan!”

  “Wake up, slug-abed,” Philippa dug me in the side with her elbow. Groaning, I shielded my eyes from the harsh morning light creeping through the shutters. “Don’t you know there’s to be a grand procession today? Mistress Mercer says we’ll be busier than we’ve ever been before. Everyone in the city will be celebrating King Edward’s arrival.”

  Although he hadn’t been crowned, Edward of York styled himself king from the moment he rode into London. Crowds flocked to catch a glimpse of the handsome young man about whom the ballad-mongers were devising glorious songs—songs that urged the people to walk “in a new vineyard” and accept the sovereignty of the “fair white rose.” Hearing them for the first time, I thought about poor, dull-witted King Henry. But Philippa proved right about the vast numbers of customers who patronised the shop during these hectic days. While Big Hal sweated in the kitchens baking extra loaves and pies, Philippa and I were rushed off our feet assisting Mistress Mercer in the serving of them, and poor Harry staggered alone through the bustling streets with all the deliveries.

  “Well, I won’t complain about the good business the new king’s brought us.” A dazed Mistress Mercer closed the shop-door behind the last customer. It was long after curfew. Smiling broadly, she poured us all goblets of sweet wine. “I think we’ve earned this,” she said. We raised our cups to the new king. In spite of our exhaustion, we laughed and gossiped late into the night.

  “They say he’s the handsomest prince in Christendom,” said Philippa, swallowing a greedy mouthful of wine. “I wish we’d been able to see him.” Rosy colour stained her cheeks. She brushed some drops from the tight bosom of her bronze gown. The shameless sparkle in her eyes infected all of us with excitement.

  But Edward lingered only a short time in the city, staying at Baynard’s Castle, the York family’s turreted house by the Thames. Then, in bitter weather, he rode north to meet his clever cousin, Warwick, and face the Lancastrian army.

  “That French queen isn’t going to yield the throne, even if the king’s no fighter,” said Harry. He stuffed loaves into baskets for deliveries.

  “Well, what mother would want to see her son disinherited?” Margaret Mercer answered, shivering in spite of a heavy walnut-coloured shawl about her shoulders. “You can’t blame her.”

  I’d forgotten the queen’s son. Prince Edward of Lancaster was just a boy, younger than me. Could he be the boy whose face I saw in my dreams? With a jolt I remembered how I’d vowed to save that boy from a dreadful fate.

  Throughout the bleak days leading up to Holy Week, anticipation simmered in the city. The cutler’s shop became the busiest in the Chepe, for buxom Maud with her saucy tales of the new king drew customers from far and wide. But when groups of armed men began skulking about the streets looking for quarrels and rumours of an imminent battle reached boiling point, Big Hal kept me in the bakery until it was over.

  Edward’s victory at some place called Towton ignited wild celebrations in the city for days, and jubilant strangers hugged me in the streets. But later, learning of the terrible slaughter he’d meted out to his enemies, the laughter died away. I slept badly that night.

  “What’s the matter with you?” hissed Philippa. “You’re as restless as a colt.” She seized the bedclothes, and with an ill-tempered grunt, turned her back on me.

  “I’ve got terrible belly-cramps.”

  She sighed. “Is it your courses?” I detected a note of sympathy. “Mistress Mercer keeps a herbal remedy in the kitchen press. Just take a sip of that.”

  I lay a moment longer, hoping she would find it for me, but when I felt her huddle down into sleep, I crawled reluctantly from the bed and wrapped my night-robe about me. Tip-toeing down the stairs, trying to avoid the treacherous creaks, I groped my way into the kitchen. My hands fumbled in the press, found the little flask—

  Darkness curdled about me. Unable to move another step, I listened to the swish of heavy robes across stone, the barely perceptible foot-falls. My flesh crawled. Behind me something paused and waited. A cool breeze fanned my ear, lifting the stray wisps of hair across my cheek. Rigid with fear, I held my breath, heard a sigh, a whisper, a sinister chuckle—

  At once the chamber relaxed as if something had passed out of it. With trembling fingers I drew the stopper from the flask and swallowed the few drops of vile liquid within. Sweat cooled on my body. I shivered.

  Climbing the steps, I glimpsed the swirl of a gold-encrusted hem, the gleam of polished leather shoes above me on the landing. Heart stuttering, I sidled towards the open door of the bed-chamber, hands slithering over the rough plastered wall for comfort.

  “Ugh! You’re cold as ice,” complained Philippa. I snuggled up against her, trembling.

  “I saw someone on the
stairs,” I whispered. “And there was someone in the kitchen.”

  Philippa’s body stiffened. “What do you mean?” Fear strangled her words.

  “It was walking about the kitchen and it came up behind me. I heard it laugh—”

  “Stop it! I thought you meant a thief. Now you’re seeing spirits. I don’t want to hear your horrible stories.” Behind the anger, terror stalked. She pulled the covers over her head, buried herself beyond my reach.

  Saint Paul’s bells tolled five times before I slept.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Here.” Mistress Mercer, still clad in her plum-coloured night robe, pressed some coins into my hand. The bleak morning light accentuated her wrinkled brow and pursed lips. “It’ll cost a shilling or two. But you look as if you need it, Nan. You’re as pale as ash.”

  Gritty-eyed with lack of sleep, I picked up the basket of warm loaves.

  “Go before you start your deliveries. Just ask for Nell Waters in Butcher Lane.” Mistress Mercer, handed me the little flask. “She lives above the basket-maker’s, third house on the left—the one with the iron boss on the door. If she’s not there, you’ll find her in The Crown tavern. She’s well-known about the place—There’s not a woman in the city hasn’t sought her skills some time or other.”

  I found the house easily enough but the basket-maker’s assistant gave me a sly wink as I mounted the steps. About half-way up I encountered a girl on her way down. Though she clasped her dark, woollen cloak about her with whitened fingers, the hood part fell from her head, revealing a luscious fall of flaxen hair. I caught a brief glimpse of a pretty, tear-stained face as we passed. Dismayed, I watched her pause to retch and called out to offer her assistance, but she snatched up the trailing hem of her russet gown and fled, snivelling. With some misgivings I continued upward to tap on the door.

  There was nothing of Mistress Evans in the hard-faced woman who urged me into the shadowy room, but the familiar scent of dried herbs perfumed the air. Bundles of lavender and tansy flowers hung from the beams, and on the dresser-shelves crowded an array of dusty, earthen jars and curious bowls. Other containers clustered before the fire, dishes filled with blossom-heads, seeds, nuts, and fragments of aromatic wood. From a hook above the flames, a cauldron bubbled. Inhaling the steam, I identified the distinctive, pungent odours of sage, rosemary and crushed ginger—an expensive spice much favoured by Big Hal in the kitchen—but another strange, underlying smoky fragrance made my head spin.