The Assassin's Wife

by Blakey, Moonyeen

  “I can’t see how the rising of a star might have any bearing on a human life. You told me our fates were written in the lines on our hands, and now you tell me the pattern of the stars shapes our destinies.”

  “Oh child,” murmured Mara, laughing and squeezing my hand, “what wondrous doubts you have. How I love the way you mock me with your unbelief. But I’ll show you how the stars form their own pathways across the heavens, pathways that echo the fate that lies in the lines of every hand.”

  She taught me names and told stories of the lights that speckle the night sky. Then she showed me how to plot the charts of a nativity. “Each chart must be carefully prepared. At the very moment of conception, fate is written in the position of the stars in the heavens. Each birth chart is quite different, for no two men are alike in every detail. The time and place of birth is also most important, for at the first cry, the first gulp of air an infant takes, its fate is sealed within a cosmic moment.” She looked deep into my eyes. “One day, you’ll remember my words, as you hold a new-born in your arms.”

  “It’s a boy,” said Kamala’s mother-in-law. Her black eyes sparkled with pride. A boy was the best gift of all, for a boy ensured the continuation of the tribe. One by one we knelt like worshippers to admire the new-born. Shangula lifted one of the spidery hands and sighed as the tiny fingers curled about her own. This sigh was echoed by the other women. Again I felt that surge of love. How I envied Kamala her babe. Homage made, I crept away into the ghostly grey of the morning to where Mara sat hunched over her chart.

  “So, what destiny map have the stars drawn for Kamala’s babe?” I asked, eager to learn the skill that I would one day use, myself.

  * * * * *

  Greedy flames licked the woodwork. The crackle and fall of burning timber, the whoosh of scattered ash and the plaintive song of the young men haunted us, as we stood in huddled groups watching the pyre. It seemed to me the sob and wail of the mourners increased as the hungry fire became a roar, engulfing the cart in vermillion splendour. In spite of the heat, I shivered. Mara handed me a cup, and I gulped the hot liquid gratefully. It burned in my throat bringing tears to my eyes. The familiar taste reminded me of the morning we’d celebrated the birth of Kamala’s child just a month before. This time we drank to Keshav’s passing.

  Shama began to howl as the men broke the cooking vessels and destroyed Keshav’s belongings. Dev cut the dog’s throat swiftly, while the horses stamped, their eyes rolling white, their nostrils quivering at the smell of fire and death. Mara touched my arm. We withdrew, leaving the white-clad mourners to join in the crescendo of grief as the last pieces of Keshav’s life were eliminated.

  “Why did Dev kill the dog?”

  “The Rom believe the dead have need of their possessions upon the spirit path. In life, a dog is a guard and a protector. In death, it may walk with its master and be a guide.”

  “Do you believe this?”

  “Have you learned so little of my beliefs, child? All this time I’ve taught you how to unlock the secrets of the spirit world, and you ask me such a question! The dead may speak to us in dreams or visions; they may walk with us on our journeys; they may depart into the distant realms of light and dark; they may return in newer forms to walk the earth. There are many pathways they may choose.”

  “But I don’t understand why you mustn’t speak a person’s name after he’s dead,” I persisted. “To wipe someone from memory seems cruel and wrong.”

  “No one is ever wiped from the memory. Those we love are locked forever in our hearts, but to speak out a name is to call back one who has departed, and that too may be unkind. Only the drabardi may call out to the dead, and only then when it is absolutely necessary.” Again she looked at me long and hard. “One day you’ll be forced to call upon the spirits to bring you guidance. They’ll hear you. The wise man’s love may cross between the two worlds. The sacrifice will seek vengeance. But such events are uncommon. The dead return as and when they must. You know this. It’s not for us to disturb them.”

  She put a finger on my lips to silence me. “Yours is a thorny road, but love is never wasted or forgotten. You’ll dance at a wedding.”

  I wanted to speak of the black-haired stranger then, but she put her finger to her own lips. “Don’t ask,” she said.

  “But I dream of him constantly.” The admission brought the hot blood into my cheeks. “I want to find him.”

  “He also dreams,” she answered.

  She bade me lay out the cards, imperious as an ancient queen. Darkness spiralled like smoke around the tall arrow-head of the candle-flame. Taut as the hare on the edge of a danger it cannot flee, I crouched over the painted images.

  “When the strong man takes you upon a new journey, you’ll begin to understand your dreams at last. I see a sword, and the naked blade is turned against two children. A terrible order is given. The parchment is signed and sealed by a woman’s hand. Because of it much blood will flow and there’ll be great weeping. Such deeds cannot remain hidden. When the sun stands in the noontime of the year there’ll be a reckoning. Other innocents will be sacrificed. She who sows tears, will harvest sorrow.”

  A terrible premonition of my own part in this great catastrophe flooded my mind. Darkness threatened to engulf me. “But I’ve set the wheel in motion,” I cried out.

  “No!” Mara was implacable. “The wheel turns of its own volition. Those who remain in its pathway are merely caught up in its spokes. Sometimes you can do nothing but watch. This is the seer’s burden. I told you it wouldn’t be easy.”

  “But how then can I save the children?” I cried out in desperation, terrified by the seeming futility of my actions.

  “Follow your purpose,” replied Mara without hesitation. “Trust the visions and do what you must. Even the assassin requires love. Rejoice that you’ve been shown the way. Learn from both success and failure. Above all, remember that birth and death are written and unalterable. Nothing is ever left to chance.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said, my head aching with confusion.

  Mara’s hand touched my brow, cool and soothing. “Be patient,” she said softly. “Learn all you can, daughter, for you’ll need all the skills you can muster. This is why I share my wisdom with you. Sometimes the seer is merely the messenger. But you’re more than this. Though your purpose is clear, warnings may often be disregarded—even our own desires may be thwarted—remember this when the widow rejects your service.” Though I begged her to explain, she’d say no more. We were within days of London. Mara called young Durga into the wagon to meet me.

  “You’ll never find all those lost children,” Durga said, her tight serious little face fixed upon mine.

  “Lost children? What lost children?”

  “The little boys,” she said, with a hint of scorn.

  “The boys? Where are they? How can I find them? I must help them.”

  She muttered something to Mara in her own tongue.

  “She says they’re not yet born,” answered Mara.

  The girl watched me with the intensity of a stoat. At no more than seven summers, Durga already had the seer’s gift. Mara had singled her out from among the children to train in the arts of “dukkering.” Already she’d learned to scry using a shallow dish of inky water.

  “Durga says you’ll touch upon a special child one day. Such children are precious gifts given only for a short space for us to cherish so we may glimpse perfection.”

  “The least wanted in the great house will command the direction of your foot-steps and the black-haired man waits in the shadows,” said Durga. “Save one child and lose all.”

  I wanted to ask her more, but Mara put a hand upon my arm.

  “You mustn’t look for answers now,” she said. “Durga has dreamed of swallows. She tells me we must soon leave this place. The cold wind begins to blow and it’ll be unwise to linger.”

  Puzzled, I stared at her. Could a child’s dreaming change important plans in a momen
t? “Luri said you’d stay in the city throughout the winter.”

  The child ignored us, engrossed in laying out the pack of painted cards.

  “I know, but dreams must be heeded.” Mara watched the girl deftly weaving the mysterious pictures into a pattern of her own devising. “They bring portents the seer must interpret. Durga’s had the same dream three times and now she’s sure of its meaning.”

  “And that is to travel?”

  Mara nodded, her attention fixed on the fall of the cards.

  “But what if you choose to ignore her advice?”

  “To do so would be foolish.”

  I snorted with exasperation.

  She smiled, shaking her head at me in that indulgent fashion I’d come to know so well. “Ever the doubter, and yet I’ve taught you to search your own dreams for instruction. Durga wouldn’t bid us travel on during the hardest of all seasons if she didn’t believe it necessary. What she lacks in years, she makes up for in understanding. You’ll see.”

  Durga held up the Knight of Wands.

  “What does this mean?” she asked suddenly, her manner shockingly un-childlike.

  “Sudden flight and separation,” answered Mara.

  The child laid the card in my lap. “I give this to you,” she said, her gaze pitiless. Then she began to sing in her shrill child’s voice. The words were alien, but the plaintive melody spoke to me of loneliness and exile.

  Mara pointed ahead. “Look where the city towers rise up before us. By nightfall we’ll be in London.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  “Go now!”

  Shangula thrust me back so I couldn’t see Mara. When I tried to approach, she snarled, cursing in the language of the Rom so savagely, spittle flew from her mouth.

  “I want to help!”

  Around us, stunned bystanders watched and I sensed their anticipation. They lusted for further bloodshed.

  I knelt in the filth where Mara struggled to rise. A scarlet thread ran from a corner of her mouth. She clutched at her chest. Even while Shangula tried to drag me away, the old woman pushed something into my hands.

  “We don’t need your help.” Shangula wrenched at my arms. “Don’t you see what your people do to us? Leave us alone!”

  Through her pain, Mara smiled and nodded. “Go, child—Remember, find the black-haired man and he’ll lead you to the children—Go now—”

  This instruction spurred me to action. Blind with tears, I burst through the array of stubborn ruffians. Someone threw a clod but I dodged into a coiling alley-way.

  Finding myself in quieter streets at last, I pulled my shawl over my head to disguise my dishevelled appearance, and after climbing some steep steps, hid briefly in the shadowy peace of a church. As the hammering of my heart stilled, I saw again and again the terrible pictures of the day’s events.

  Three days we’d stayed in London. Three days we’d enjoyed the patronage of the crowds.

  “Egyptians!”

  The word buzzed through the city, drawing people to us like eager moths.

  They marvelled as we danced, whirling bright colours, and sang strange, rhythmic music. Scarlet and gold, vermillion, ochre, amber, and sapphire, the shocking garments dazzled and bewitched. The drums pulsed. As Luri plucked the strings of the strange bulb-shaped instrument, the wailing sound pleaded like unfulfilled desire. Caught like insects in the spider’s gossamer, the spectators sighed and groaned, held by the magic of the music, the kaleidoscope of colour.

  And while they gazed, Mara and Durga and I moved among them, cajoling coins in exchange for words of wonder, telling secrets of the past and future, while Shangula sold them packages of herbs to cure the ague or to capture the heart.

  Three days we entertained them, spun them tales of exotic lands and peoples, but on the fourth—

  “Thief!”

  A red-faced, bull of a man seized Akasha by the hair. She screamed, twisting to shake free, but he wrenched her head back so cruelly I thought he’d snap her neck.

  “I felt her hand upon my purse!” he roared at the fascinated crowd. “Now it’s gone. I’ll wager she has it about her somewhere!”

  He fumbled at her breasts, ripping at her clothes. The crowd surged forward. Above the clamour, I heard the ribald jests.

  Dev fought his way through the press of bodies. Behind him Luri howled. The crowd became a mob that battered and trampled. Jabbed aside, I snatched at figures in a struggle to maintain my balance, and met with elbows, fists and nails. Briefly, I glimpsed the torn face of Akasha. Her eyes gleamed wild, the whites turned upward like those of a maddened horse.

  Someone threw stones. I shrank from the whistle and thud, the high shrieks of pain. Pitiless in my desire to escape, I thrust myself against all those who obstructed me, forcing them to give way.

  Someone tugged at my arm.

  “Mara!”

  Durga’s bloody face confronted me. Her eyes glowed like tempered steel. She dragged me to where Shangula knelt by the old woman. Shangula, tangled hair about her face like a lion’s mane, roared curses.

  Shangula drove me away. I knew then there could be no turning back. No longer part of the Rom, I must travel alone as Mara had taught me. I quickened my pace and the city streets grew familiar. Soon I stood in Forster Lane with its shops full of bright Venetian glass. Purposefully, I walked towards the Chepe.

  * * * * *

  Standing by the steps, the open bake-house door wafting its familiar mouth-watering fragrances, Margaret Mercer, smaller than I remembered in a charcoal, woollen gown, eyed me with a quizzical expression.

  “Well, I never expected to see you!”

  Surprised by the wariness of her manner, I hesitated.

  “You’d best come in.”

  She moved back a step as if to allow me passage to the living quarters above the shop but the lack of warmth in this welcome made me awkward. I stood smiling uncertainly, conscious of the hum of voices from below.

  “I couldn’t wait to get here,” I said at last.

  “You’ve certainly kept us talking these last months.” Her keen gaze travelled over my gaudy, thread-bare garments. “I don’t know where you’ve been, but we’ve had no end of folk enquiring after you.”

  “People asking after me?”

  Her shrewd appraisal unnerved me almost as much as her words.

  “Aye, men from Bishop Stillington’s household—saying he was anxious to speak to you. Hal told them you were still in the Butler wench’s employ as far as we knew, and that we’d heard she’d gone to Norfolk.”

  “Bishop Stillington?”

  “Aye, Bishop of Bath and Wells. King Edward appointed him so just after the Wydeville wench was proclaimed queen. Where’ve you been hiding, Nan? Didn’t you hear any news?”

  She waited then, her eyes steady on my face.

  “We heard little in Norwich,” I answered, vague with shock. “The sisters have turned their backs on the world—” A wave of unease passed through me with sudden violence. Why had King Edward shown Stillington such a mark of favour? Conscious then of Margaret Mercer’s relentless gaze, I began to bluster. “But why would Bishop Stillington want to speak to me?” Feigning astonishment, I tried to hide the stab of fear that set my belly lurching. “When he knew I was with Dame Eleanor?”

  “Why, indeed.” Time had whitened much of her hair and etched more lines into her face, but her mind moved as astute as ever. Her unblinking eyes probed mine. “Only last week another came hunting you—telling us you’d disappeared. We were so worried then—”

  “I thought I knew that voice!” Someone seized me from behind and caught me in a warm, flour-dusty embrace. “I was just finishing in the bake-house—How long have you been here?”

  Grateful for the interruption, and remembering how I’d parted from Harry in anger, I hugged him hard. “I’m sorry I—”

  “No tears.” He squeezed my shoulders and steered me up towards the living quarters. “We’re overjoyed to have you back, aren’t we,
Mother?”

  “I was telling her, we began to think we shouldn’t see her again,” Mistress Mercer wheezed, plodding behind us on the stairs.

  Settled by a cheerful fire, I fed my listeners with a tortuous tale of my travels, although I took care not to mention the Roma.

  “Fancy Dame Eleanor taking the veil!” Meg gasped. “And then to die so young!”

  “She took a fever.” I swallowed sweet wine, hoping they wouldn’t ask too many questions. The news of Stillington’s advancement still rankled. “They wanted to make a nun of me too,” I said with a shudder. “But I told Sister Ursula I’d family in London.” Looking round at their homely faces, I smiled in genuine pleasure. “I couldn’t wait to see you all again.”

  “And there are more of us to meet now.” Big Hal beamed. “Meg and Harry named their little girl Nancy for you.” He turned to include his wife in this delightful piece of news but her wrinkled face remained inscrutable. I wondered then how much she believed of my story and what had made her so suspicious of me.

  At supper I met my namesake, a winsome child with russet curls, who took a great fancy to me. While Meg chattered of Aunt Grace selling the tannery after Uncle Will’s death and moving to Dorset to be with Sarah and Walt, Nancy sat on my lap stealing morsels of food from my dish—an indulgence which made Margaret Mercer raise her bushy eyebrows in mock reproof.

  “And Judith?”

  “Has a little boy—with red hair just as you predicted.”

  Meg’s careless words sparked a sudden, uncomfortable silence. The fortune-telling incident returned to taunt me then, and I wondered how much she’d told the Mercers.

  “Has anyone seen Brother Brian?” My innocent query produced another strange effect.

  Big Hal coughed. “A friar came looking for you, not long after you’d gone to Norfolk.” He avoided my eyes, his awkward delivery suggesting embarrassment. He cast sheepish glances at the others. “He told us your priest had gone into a monastery up north.” Again he paused to clear his throat. “There’s some scandal about him and a young scholar getting over-fond of one another.”