The Assassin's Wife

by Blakey, Moonyeen

  “I hope you won’t mind sleeping in the attic.” Mistress Mercer’s strained voice cut short the conversation. With a nod at Harry, she ushered me upstairs to the old chamber I’d once shared with Philippa. Fidgeting uncomfortably, I pretended interest in the furnishings, the newly painted walls and velvet hangings.

  “Remember this?” Harry picked up a wooden creature from the shelf.

  “My little horse! Oh thank you, Harry!” I flung my arms about him. “What a crosspatch I was for leaving him behind.”

  “And here’s the companion I promised.” Blushing, he indicated another, more skilfully executed.

  Mistress Mercer eyed me pertinently. “No one likes this chamber much,” she said. “Marian complained she had bad dreams and wouldn’t sleep in it after she saw something on the stairs just outside—”

  My cheeks flamed. “Perhaps she heard some tale from Philippa,” I answered, arranging my little horses on the shelf in an attempt to divert her.

  “You can help with the deliveries tomorrow,” said Harry, without consulting his mother.

  Still breathing hard from the steep climb upstairs, the stout matron gave him a sharp look. “Aye, I’ve no doubt she’s anxious to acquaint herself with the city again.”

  Outside in the street next morning, he tipped me a sly wink. “You’ve not told us much about your time in Norwich, Nan. There’s some secret or other about that affair, I’m certain. You’ve never been much good at lying. Mother’s got the scent of it, I warn you!”

  Wary of listeners, I glanced about me. “I’ve good reason to keep quiet,” I answered. “There are some things I can’t tell you—at least, not yet. But I truly need your help. I’m looking for someone and it’s very important I find him soon. He’s in the Duchess of York’s household.”

  “Ah, it’s a he, is it?” Harry’s eyes twinkled. He drew me round the corner. “I thought as much. And in a noble house, eh?”

  “You must promise, first, to say nothing to anyone—not even Meg.”

  Dear Harry. Swearing loyalty, he listened with patient humour as I described the man I must find.

  “You saw him in Silver Street among the Duchess’s men? And he asked you to meet him in the Boar’s Head? But you didn’t bother to ask his name?” Harry looked at me in amazement. “Well, I wonder why you’re so very keen to find him—” His teasing brought colour to my cheeks. “Tall, black-haired, blue eyes, muscular, strong-looking, northern speech—A fine man for a maid, eh? But it’s not much to go on, is it?”

  My urgency halted his laughter. “I’d know him anywhere. I must find him, Harry. He’s connected with a dream I’ve had since childhood.” I tried to cover my confusion by glancing at the stalls and passing customers. How could I tell him I’d been on the verge of running off with this man and still blushed at the memories he roused?

  A solemn Harry confronted me. “Mother says you’ve Second Sight. She and Aunt Grace gossiped of it often enough. You women are all alike when it comes to spells and potions and fortune telling—can’t get enough of it. But it’s a dangerous thing—”

  “It’s not a gift I’d wish on others.”

  “But this dream—Is it so important you’d risk your life for it?” His unaccustomed gravity alarmed me. “There was a witch hanged in the city only last month—”

  Shutting my ears to his warning, I spilled something of my secret. “The lives of two noble boys are in danger. Somehow I have to save them. Don’t look like that! It may sound silly, but Brother Brian believes me.”

  At the mention of the priest’s name Harry winced.

  “Whatever people think, I trust him absolutely. It’s why I wrote to him from Norwich.” A group of nuns passed us, reminding me unpleasantly of Sister Absalom. “I wish I knew how to find him. Perhaps I should write to Alan Palmer in Ely?”

  His shoulders rigid with anxiety, Harry gave me a hard look. “Perhaps you should.” His expression reminded me of his mother then. “And why’s this Bishop Stillington so desperate to find you?”

  I shook my head vehemently. “Better you know nothing of him,” I answered, the memory of the hawk-faced prelate causing my heart to race. “If I can find those boys, I know I can outwit him, too.”

  “I promise I’ll do all I can to help you.” Harry made this pledge with such solemnity tears stung my eyes, forcing me to turn away from him.

  “I thought Maud might know something—but we’d have to be discreet,” I said, adopting a lighter tone. “I don’t want her prying—”

  “Well, that’s a challenge in itself!” He handed me one of his baskets, a mischievous grin back on his face. “No time like the present. Are you ready to face the notorious Mistress Attemore? I’m sure she’ll be more than happy to see you and share the latest scandal!”

  Though we pretended nonchalance about this enterprise, a sense of dread, like a chilling fog, enveloped me as we headed into the market.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Though Harry and I searched high and low over the next weeks, we discovered no trace of my black-haired man. Harry tried the Boar’s Head in Knightriders Street and even went to Baynard’s Castle, the Duchess of York’s London residence.

  “I spoke to one of the men at arms, but he said the duchess’s attendants come and go all the time.”

  During this turbulent period the Yorkist troops moved constantly. It made enquiries difficult. Of course, when Maud discovered my quest, she teased me mercilessly, reminding me of my pretended disinterest in Warwick’s men when we’d watched the parade all those years ago.

  “And now you’re looking for some knave you glimpsed just for a moment.” She gave Harry a bold wink. “It’s time we got this wench a husband. How old are you now, Nan? Fifteen? What do you think of the butcher’s apprentice for her? When she’s a pair of brats to feed, she won’t have time to go searching after mysterious black-haired lovers!” Her coarsened features creased with mirth. I was glad when she turned her attention on Harry, for she drew other matrons into her banter and I loathed being the butt of their ribald jokes. “How’s that wife of yours?” she asked him. “Her babe must be due any time now?”

  “The sooner the better, for her temper’s very short these days.” Harry assumed a pained expression. “How I suffer for it!”

  The inquisitive matrons clucked their sympathy but humour sparkled in their eyes. Maud began some tale of a mild-tempered woman who’d turned into a shrew every time she bore a child. “Ten times her husband had to endure her terrible wrath,” she teased. “You’ve only begun your trials, Master Mercer!”

  But the new babe turned out to be a healthy boy, born in the early hours of a bright spring morning and named Will for Meg’s father. Big Hal poured us generous measures of fine wine. “Let’s drink to the health of a new baker!” He raised his goblet high.

  * * * * *

  Somewhere close by a horse screamed. Between the ribbons of fog I caught a glimpse of plunging hooves and blood-flecked flanks. Far away, the muffled blare of trumpets signalled danger. But the white web drifted across my eyes, blurring the shifting shapes. Nothing in this landscape seemed familiar. A loathsome sense of isolation overwhelmed me.

  Shockingly, unpredictably, arrows fell, whistling and thudding. Staggering blindly about the field I blundered into a savage group of men fighting hand to hand. My head rang with the hollow sound of clanging metal.

  “The queen’s used her witchcraft.” A familiar voice whispered in my ear, insidious, gloating.

  I turned to confront its owner but was caught among shadowy figures brandishing murderous weapons—sword, knife, bludgeoning mace.

  Groans echoed. Something in their eerie timbre captured my imagination. I knelt in awe while the infernal fog billowed over me, inexorable as waves washing up a beach.

  From out the eerie twilight a giant loomed. He rode a monstrous horse and wielded a battle-axe. Nothing could withstand him. Like a human battering ram, he trampled down his enemies. Through his visor I saw the spark of g
reen bale-fire, and knew I was trapped among the damned.

  Nearby, a soldier fell. Blood gurgled in his throat. A hand reached out.

  “Alys—”

  Robin Arrowsmith’s tortured face looked up at me. “The Earl of Warwick will be destroyed by witchcraft,” he whispered, as if imparting a great secret. “On Easter Sunday the world moves toward destruction. Find Miles—Find Miles—”

  * * * * *

  That night I woke the household with my shouts. Margaret Mercer drove the others back to their beds and brought me a soothing drink.

  “One of your bad dreams?” She hugged her heavy, brocade night-robe about her, sitting close by me on the bed.

  Exhausted by my vision, I struggled to speak. “There was a battle. I felt I was in it—lost in fog—and then I saw someone I knew—”

  Her face pinched with anxiety, she leaned over me. “What did you see?”

  “A great battle at Easter and a hard reckoning—the standard of the bear and ragged staff lying in the mud.”

  “Warwick.” She crossed herself and shivered, her frown growing deeper.

  “Events are spinning fast towards an end that will bring a new beginning—” I struggled to remember the things I’d seen, pressing my palms against my eyelids to recapture the ugly pictures. “When green buds burst men will wade in blood. And many flowers must fall. Where men look for sanctuary they’ll find none, and the last hope of a great house will be trampled into dust. Two battles in two months and the petals of the red rose scattered on the wind—”

  “The badge of Lancaster.”

  “The battles will happen. It’ll mark a change in all our fortunes.” I looked into her face.

  Her own gaze hardened but I knew she believed me. “You’ve a fine way of telling these visions.”

  “I met an old wise woman as I travelled from Norfolk.” Mara’s wrinkled brown face flashed into my mind. I heard her husky laughter. “She taught me how to see clearer, and to interpret the symbols.”

  “Did she give you the cards?”

  Too shocked to speak, I could only stare at her.

  “Nancy found them. We were playing a game. She hid her doll in the oak chest where you keep your clothes. She found the cards hidden among your garments. The pictures fascinated her—Don’t worry, I wrapped them up and put them back. I told her they weren’t playthings.”

  “The wise woman taught me how to use them to tell fortunes. They were her last gift.”

  “Fortune-telling’s a dangerous pastime.” These warning words set me shuddering.

  “You’re cold,” she said, tucking the coverlet about me. “Put these terrible things out of your mind. Such dreams can do no good to anyone.”

  Heaving herself to her feet, she picked up her taper and shuffled towards the door. Stifling a yawn, she asked, “Tell me, who’s Miles? You were calling his name.”

  * * * * *

  “Miles—” a sleep-starved Harry sighed, when I told him next morning on deliveries. “Well, it’s a start, I suppose.” He’d recently struck up an acquaintanceship with one of the duchess’s men in a tavern by Fish Lane. “I’ll see what I can find out from Edgar.”

  I fumed and fretted all day.

  “I stopped to see a friend at the The Waterman’s Tavern,” he said, arriving late for supper. Kissing Nancy, his eyes signalled success.

  “Ed says there was a Miles Forrest answering your description, but he left to follow Warwick.” While Meg put Nancy to bed, Harry joined me in the bake-house, cutting the last of the loaves to divide among the beggars in the morning. “This Forrest’s a mercenary of some kind—soldiered in the Low Countries from being a lad—and has a name for being something of a brawler—”

  “And?” I knew Harry was keeping something back.

  “It seems he has a reputation amongst the ladies too—Ed asked if it was some lass wanting to know his whereabouts—”

  “Where’s Warwick now?”

  “That’s a question I can’t answer.” Harry gave me a rueful grin. “Warwick’s quarrelled with King Edward and left London—He’s probably gone back north to Middleham.”

  “Middleham.” I rolled the word around, savouring the strange familiarity of the name. “Where’s that?”

  “Yorkshire.” Harry laughed then, stifling his yawns. “I’m not likely to be going there in a hurry, Nan, and nor are you. You’ll have to wait until Warwick returns!”

  Chapter-Thirty-Eight

  Under Margaret Mercer’s watchful scrutiny, my days fell into a regular pattern, but tension kept me on edge. Once or twice she mentioned Stillington or asked questions about Eleanor that tripped me up. Though she made no reference to the extraordinary dream I’d shared with her or to the fortune-telling cards, I sensed her anxiety. Only out in the streets when I was free of her vigilance, could I speak openly to Harry about my quest, but even he cautioned secrecy.

  “The city’s not safe these days,” he said, as we passed a knot of rogues arguing outside a tavern in Newgate. “You never know who’s listening.”

  On the first day of October, it seemed his warning would prove true. A flood of excited people choked the streets surrounding the Chepe, and several men accosted us with tales of treachery, bloodshed and disaster.

  Alarmed, we hurried back to Bread Street, forcing our way into a shop full of rowdy, gesticulating customers.

  “What on earth’s happening?” Mistress Mercer shouted over their heads. “It’s been like this all morning—What’s all this about Warwick putting King Henry back on the throne?”

  Surrounded by impatient tradesmen, Harry tried to catch his breath. “Well, news in the city has King Edward fleeing to Burgundy yesterday without a penny on him—”

  Sudden as a falling axe, the racket ceased. Every face turned on us.

  “Maud Attemore’s telling a tale of how he had to pay his passage with a marten-fur cloak.” I said, breaking the shocked silence. A memory of the handsome king flinging this very cloak about his shoulders brought a vivid image of Eleanor into my mind.

  When a wealthy looking man began pestering Harry for information about threatened trade, the babble restarted with increased vigour.

  “The French are already dancing in the streets, they say—celebrating the Lancastrian victory.”

  “Aye, and no doubt King Edward will drag us into a war with them.” A florid Big Hal hefted a sack of flour through the door.

  “Well, Burgundy’s certain to help him get his throne back!” Harry’s thoughtless remark to his father roused further consternation.

  “But what about the queen? She expects another child at the end of the year. Surely the king didn’t leave her behind?”

  A tradesman’s lewd reply set the men-folk sniggering.

  “I blame that Wydeville wench and her greedy family for this trouble,” he said. “Ever since the king married her she’s had her fingers in his purse!”

  “Aye,” said a straggle-haired wench, “and what use is that? Nothing but daughters she’s whelped, in spite of her French mother using witchcraft to lure him into her bed.”

  Wincing at the mention of witchcraft, I pushed my way towards the living-quarters.

  “No, it’s Warwick who’s too ambitious.” said a richly dressed burgher. “There’s been dissent ever since he married his daughter to the king’s brother, George.”

  “Aye, the king forbade that marriage but they went ahead with it—”

  “I blame George of Clarence for stirring up this quarrel—”

  “There’ll be more bloodshed yet—”

  The cacophony of male voices followed me up the stairs.

  * * * * *

  For days news about Warwick raised feverish commotion throughout the city.

  “I can’t believe he’s joined Queen Margaret,” said Harry, arriving home one evening. “Why, he called the woman a “she-wolf”! But I just heard there’s a public reception for King Henry and a grand parade through the streets to St Paul’s tomorrow.”
/>   Big Hal shook his head. “I can’t see that poor, feeble-minded soul rousing much sympathy.”

  “Never mind that,” said Mistress Mercer. “Supper’ll be on the table in a moment. Is there no bread left?”

  While she and Meg fussed over food, I followed Harry down to the bake-house.

  “So Warwick’s back in London.”

  Startled, he looked up from the trestle. “You made me jump.” Then, handing me a misshapen loaf, he gave me an impish look. “I suppose you want to see the parade?”

  “I’m sure Nancy would love to see the king,” I answered with a smirk.

  * * * * *

  Big Hal proved wrong about King Henry. Plainly determined to impress, Warwick soon had the gullible citizens eating out of his hand with a cunning spectacle. For once the old king abandoned his monkish dress to wear robes of state and a crown, but even in this finery, he made a pitiful figure when compared to his golden predecessor.

  At the cathedral, where we joined a restless, heaving crowd, the Kingmaker himself carried the royal train, and people shouted, “God save King Henry!”

  Recognizing Warwick’s clever piece of strategy, I fretted at their disloyalty. “Not so long ago, these same people cheered for King Edward.”

  “But King Henry has a son, Nan.”

  Harry lifted Nancy from his shoulders and we wandered through the streets thronged with merrymakers. “If Edward had married a French princess as Warwick wanted, things might have been very different. Elizabeth Wydeville and that secret marriage provoked this disaster. Warwick detests her and all her family.”

  The mention of secret marriage brought Eleanor into mind again, and I wondered if I dared tell Harry about it. Perhaps it was well that Nancy interrupted.