The Assassin's Wife

by Blakey, Moonyeen

  “You’ve no need of me, child. You have the Sight.”

  “But what does it mean?” I asked, trembling with desire to know more.

  “It means you must learn to live without the help of others.” Pity shone in her eyes. “Just as we did when Hugh died.”

  I realised then someone else in the room was watching. By the hearth sat an elfin child, so still she might have been carved out of wood. Yet her hands moved deftly, for she was winding wool. She looked up at me. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but in that moment flames licked all around her, setting her hair on fire, and I opened my mouth to cry out. But something in her black eyes prevented it. They shone well-deep like her mother’s and held the same ancient wisdom.

  “There was another girl—”

  “Olwyn, my eldest, looking after the sheep.”

  A long, uncertain silence froze me.

  “Your future’s written,” said Widow Evans. “I can’t change it. There’s no charm potent enough to turn the tide. Destiny can’t be altered to suit us.” Her face grew melancholy. “You don’t understand half of what I’m saying, do you?”

  She glanced up suddenly as if she’d heard something on the roof.

  “Storm clouds are gathering. You should go home while you can.”

  Outside a blackbird sang fiercely, a flood of pure harmony; hens clucked and scratched in the earth; sheep cropped the meadow grass, but there was no sign of the girl with the willow-wand.

  With a heart heavier than the burden of kindling I carried, I trudged past the water-mill and the shabby cluster of huts and duck-pens by the little stream, puzzling over the strange fate the widow predicted for me.

  Chapter Four

  “You’re in trouble.”

  I jumped at the reedy voice. Elaine stood up from a huddle of girls playing five-stones at the far edge of the green, away from the houses, but Alys pushed toward me, huge blue eyes blurred with tears.

  “Oh Nan, a messenger came this morning and ever since there’s been such dreadful talk—”

  “But what have I done?” I stared defiantly at the ring of shocked faces, relieved to find Johnanna Nettleship not among them.

  “Everyone’s talking about a big battle at Northampton.” Elaine’s eyes gleamed, malicious with secret amusement.

  “What’s that to do with me?”

  “Peter Nettleship’s been killed.” Alys grasped my hand with painful urgency. “And my mother said the Brewers have lost two sons.”

  “You said those men wouldn’t come back.” Elaine’s spiteful taunt provoked me. “And now they’re all dead. The river’s blocked with bodies. One turned up as close as Billing Bridge. You should hear what people are saying about you.”

  I didn’t wait to listen.

  Turning back the way I’d come, I skirted round the church. Ignoring the tight knots of women in the lane, I scurried homeward.

  The sight of our open door halted me.

  “John’s a sister in London,” I heard my mother say.

  “Such a place might prove a grand haven,” the priest’s mellow tones replied. “But I’m after thinking this will be a warning to her and it may not come to that. She’s a powerful imagination, but there’s no malice in her—”

  “She needs a whipping.” Fat Marion growled like a peevish cur. “Jane’s been too soft. I’ll wager the Nettleships would be glad to see the last of her—not to mention the Heywoods and the Brewers. She’s an impudent manner of speaking and it’s my belief she likes to frighten folk. Not so long ago she told me I’d lose my lads at harvest time. ‘You’ll be weeping then,’ she said. What kind of child thinks up such wickedness? It’s not natural–”

  She paused and suddenly pointed through the doorway, reddened cheeks quivering with indignation. “Well, speak of the devil—there she is!” Her eyes darted fury. “See how she creeps about spying on folk—”

  She shrugged off the priest’s soothing words and stormed out into the road. “Best fetch your washing in, Jane.” She held a plump hand upward. “It’s starting to rain.”

  * * * * *

  Rain.

  September brought great floods and swathes of it. It filled the ruts and hollows, swelled the ponds and burst over the fields, greedy as an ogre, consuming everything in its path. Crops barely ripened by a poor summer bowed under the torrents and rotted on the stalk. In an effort to bring in what remained of harvest the men-folk struggled against the elements, until sodden, cold and despairing, we faced the prospect of hunger and starvation.

  “Harvest’s never easy — Noll says the Nene will flood.”

  Ignoring my father’s words, my mother snatched him out of the winding-sheet of his wet clothes. Muttering, she knelt to rub his mottled flesh into life before our meagre fire. After working in the fields all day he looked bone-weary.

  “But this year—I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Shivering, he crouched over the heat, hugging a coarse blanket round him.

  The wind drove a sudden rain squall against the house and drops of water hissed among the flames. Stinking smoke rose from smouldering sticks and my father coughed until his eyes streamed.

  “Don’t sit there choking to death.” Impatiently, my mother gathered up discarded garments and thrust them at me. “Eat your supper. I’ve been trying to keep it hot. I thought you were never coming home.”

  Dragging the heap of sopping clothes into a pail, I watched him spoon up his pottage so slowly I thought he’d fall asleep over it.

  A wretched sense of gloom seemed to settle on the house. Even the sly-lipped goat pressed against the wall, hung its draggled head.

  “Giles and Noll are still out there,” he said at last, heaving a sigh.

  “What? In the dark?” My mother fumed over the trail of wet ash around the hearth, mopping at it with a rag as if her fear and anger goaded her to relentless action.

  “They want to finish the top field.”

  All night wind and rain battered at the house, thrashing the leather door flap, driving in puddles, churning the earth to mud. It rained next morning, too.

  And then the sickness came.

  Like a gale, it swept into the village, striking down weak and strong without pity. Within days it devoured whole families.

  When my father stumbled home early from the fields one dank afternoon, I left off spinning and ran to greet him. Shaking off his draggled cloak, he loitered on the threshold, his face grim.

  “Did you hear anything of Roger Miller?” he asked my mother, who was stirring a pot over the fire.

  “He died this morning. Marion said his belly swelled up like a great bladder and he raved in agony all night. That’s the third one in as many days.” She crossed herself and moved toward him. “You’re early. What’s wrong?” Fear etched deep lines in her face.

  “Marion’s lad fell in the field just now. He looks bad.”

  “But Stephen didn’t go to work today—Marion said he’d been sick—”

  “It’s her eldest—Mark.” My father’s mouth twisted. “Noll and Giles had to carry him home just now. Wait—” He snatched at my mother’s arm. “There’s nothing you can do, Jane.”

  “I should go to her—”

  “You’ve your own children to think of.”

  Defeated, she sank on to a stool by the sodden door flap, her face the colour of bone. “What are we going to do? They say there’s no cure for it.” She gave me a quick look and bit at a strand of chestnut hair. “Where’s it come from, John? What have we done to deserve such a thing?”

  It marked the beginning of a time of tears and terror. The burial ground sprouted a crop of new graves and women flocked to buy remedies of Mistress Evans— until rumblings of witchcraft panicked them. Grim faces turned in my direction then. Impudently, I shook off the whispers and nods, but my mother buckled under the shame of it.

  “What kind of child are you to heap such sorrow on my head?” she asked.

  Chapter Five

  One raw
morning in late September my mother thrust a basin at me. “Go to the woods and pick some berries.”

  Glad of her curt dismissal, I took refuge among the trees. But I went alone, and before long one of those strange, heavy feelings I couldn’t shake off descended on me. It nagged at me like a stitch in the side and I wished I could talk to my father about it. But in spite of the perpetual drizzle, he’d been out in the fields again since daybreak.

  In normal times the hedges drooped heavy with fruit, but this year they bloomed with mould. I plucked what whole morsels I could find, my hands stained almost black with juice. I didn’t hear the arrival of other foragers.

  “Why do you say such terrible things?”

  “What have I done now?” I rounded fiercely.

  A tear-streaked Alys faced me.

  “You told my mother her sons would die at harvest time.” Alys looked so helpless with her little sister at her side, I grew contrite in a moment.

  “I only told her some men would be going away.”

  “But three of my brothers have died.” Her voice trembled. “Oliver was buried only yesterday.”

  “I’m sorry.” Foolishly, I offered the only comfort I knew. “But they’ll come back to see you. Don’t you remember how I saw Will Nettleship—”

  Alys’ blue eyes widened. She crossed herself, hugging her sister close.

  “You mustn’t tell lies!” The flaxen curls shook with horror. “You’ll go to hell!”

  Friendship melted into silence while other children invaded the grove. They crept up to stand around us, mute and sullen. Glancing from one stark face to another, I caught at last some inkling of the fear I’d conjured in our community.

  “My head hurts.” The small girl’s wail echoed amongst the dripping trees.

  Alys dropped her basket to place a hand on the child’s brow. “She’s burning hot.”

  Our eyes locked.

  “She’s got some spots on her neck—” Her frightened whisper provoked a panicked threshing through the bracken. Abandoned, Alys and I clung together, joined again in adversity.

  Quarrel forgotten, we carried the sick child from the woods. At Alys’ cottage strong arms took up the burden and drew her into the comfort of shared sorrow. But me they shut out, dropping the door flap against my offers of help.

  * * * * *

  No plume of smoke curled from our roof, but a knot of men stood outside. Daft Geoffrey, the miller’s feeble-minded son, crooned and swayed on the threshold.

  I ran toward them through the spits and spots of rain, but when they recognised me, tension gripped their shoulders, hostility flooded into their eyes. Without a word they stepped aside.

  I found my mother hunched over the ashes of a fire, her face blotched with grief. Kneeling by a pallet on the floor, Brother Brian prayed earnestly. Noll Wright, his head lapped in an old, burned cloth, leaned over a huddled figure beneath a heap of threadbare blankets.

  My father’s face twisted into a frightful grimace, one eye fixed and milky, the other wandering. Like a stone he lay, mumbling strange sounds and drooling like a babe.

  “Strong as an ox, John was,” said Noll Wright. He rubbed his knuckles over the stubble on his chin. “I’ve worked with him from dawn to dusk every harvest since we were both young bachelors. I can’t believe I’m seeing this.”

  “Your father fell in the field, Nan.” Brother Brian glanced up from his devotions. “Noll, and Giles Arrowsmith carried him home. He’s very sick.”

  The words spilled over me without meaning for I was shocked by the scowl on Noll Wright’s face. Never had I seen such hatred in anyone’s eyes.

  He staggered to his feet to address the priest in surly tones.

  “I’ll leave you to your prayers, Brother Brian. My work here’s done. I’ll send my wife to help Jane. Ruth Arrowsmith’ll keep the little lad this night.” He gave me a hard glance. “The maid must look to herself.”

  When he was gone I sat beside the priest, listening to the rain drumming on the roof, sensing my world sliding into chaos. I couldn’t rouse my mother. She sat by the hearth holding her swollen belly, rocking and moaning. When I touched her shoulder, she turned a savage look on me.

  “I blame you for this,” she said.

  Chapter Six

  Throughout the waning autumn, the passing-bell brought many to the churchyard. Daily, hooded women thronged the houses of the bereaved. The drone of loss filled the village like the hum of a busy hive.

  But nothing touched me. The Mass, the burial, and the mourning for my father’s death sailed like ragged thunder-clouds across my days. Dry-eyed and lonely, I stumbled through my tasks while rotting corpses swelled the burying ground. But when they carried Fat Marion’s last son to his grave, the storm of anger broke across my head in all its fury.

  “Witch! Witch!”

  A clod of earth struck me as I stooped to draw water from the well. I turned in shock. Fat Marion, red-faced and weeping, bore down upon me.

  “I’ll see you hanged for this!” Shoulders heaving with exertion, she paused to catch her breath. Soil crumbled from her hands. Her shrieks roused neighbours from their houses. Sullen and watchful, they waited on their thresholds.

  When she fetched me a cuff around the ear which made me drop my pail, I froze. Around me faces leered, lips drew back exposing jagged teeth, bodies tensed, fist and nail curled in anticipation. I looked into the eyes of strangers, and murder glowered in every one of them.

  I ran towards the woodland.

  As at a signal, they joined the chase, pelting me with mud and stones. Ahead, the blacksmith stood brandishing a mattock, a giant barring my path, and from all sides, greedy hands snatched and clawed. Like a panicked hare trying to dodge the teeth of the hounds, I ran this way and that—directionless—witless—blinded by fear.

  How I reached the church I don’t know. Brother Brian stepped through the open door and I fell into his arms.

  “That creature’s the devil’s instrument.” Fat Marion panted at my heels. Behind her the feral crowd roared its approval.

  “She’s only a child,” the priest said.

  For an instant the snarls abated, held by the power of his words and the church’s authority.

  “Witches can be any age, Brother Brian.” The blacksmith’s voice rang fearless. “The devil’s in that maid and she’s infected all of us. We must burn it out.”

  The crowd took up the chant. Above the priest’s protests, the voices snapped and whined as individual villagers cursed, blaming me for everything, for the battle, the plague, the lost harvest, even for the death of my own father.

  Squeezing my eyes tight shut, burying my face in the rough, dusty fabric of his robe, I clung to Brother Brian. Any moment I expected to be torn away and dragged to the stake. I’d heard people talk of witch burning with a strange mixture of glee and horror, and now the crowd’s frenzy rose to a screeching, breathless climax —

  “Go home!”

  The fury of the priest’s command brought silence.

  “I’m shamed to hear such things. Is it ignorant you are? Have my words meant nothing to you? Have you forgotten how Our Lord was persecuted by an angry mob? And are you after punishing a child? Go home at once and reflect on your sins. I’ll hear no more of this.”

  They slunk away like curs and then he looked at me, his eyes full of tears.

  “Child, child, what am I to do with you?” he said.

  Chapter Seven

  Two days he hid me in the church. I lay in the very heart of the village with my neighbours prowling just outside while the priest kept watch. Alan Palmer carried messages and I listened to their desperate whispered exchanges while pretending to draw ink patterns on scraps of vellum.

  “You took the letter?”

  “The messenger has it in his pack. He left early. But Master Wright says she must be punished and my father says some of the men plan to fetch Sir Robert from the manor at Houghton—”

  “They wouldn’t violate the sanctu
ary of the church.” The priest plucked at his mouth and paced the flagstones.

  “Her mother won’t take her back—”

  “The letter was to her aunt. Does anyone know she’s here?”

  The blond lad shook his head. “I said I’d seen her in the woods and near the Stone on Ford’s Hill—”

  My heart skipped. Everyone feared the Standing Stone. No one understood the strange designs scratched on it or how it came to be there. Long ago some ancient bones and daggers were discovered buried in the earth nearby, and whispers of pagan sacrifice still circulated. Why had Alan told people he’d seen me there?

  “Wait here. I must speak to Martin.” The priest snatched up his cloak and gave me a quick glance. He turned back to Alan, his face haggard. “If anything should happen—ring the bell.”

  An uncomfortable silence settled. I tried to decipher the meaning of their conversation.

  “Will they burn me?”

  A tremor shook the lad. His beautiful limpid eyes regarded me with horror.

  “Brother Brian won’t let them.”

  We didn’t speak again. But when the priest returned I knew some irrevocable decision had been made.

  “Go home now, Alan. Martin’s agreed.” The priest crouched beside me, his face strained. “You must eat your supper, Nan, and go to sleep. We’ve a long journey tomorrow.”

  * * * * *

  “Quickly now, on to the cart.” The carter shoved me mercilessly.

  Blind with sleep, I scrabbled up, scraping knees and hands, clawing for purchase amongst the coils of rope and bales of straw.

  “Why do we have to go now? It’s not even daylight. I wanted to see Tom—”

  “Sssh! Do you want to rouse the whole village?” The carter’s brutal hiss stung my ear. “You’ve caused enough trouble—”

  Brother Brian sprang to my side and, dropping his bundle, wrapped a protective arm about me. The squeeze of his fingers suggested sympathy, but wasn’t it his idea to send me away? I fumed against this restraining grip, but before I could wriggle free, the horse shifted in its harness and the cart lurched forward.