The Assassin's Wife

by Blakey, Moonyeen

  Chapter Forty-Four

  “Who is she?”

  Agnes plucked me by the sleeve, trying to divert my attention to a fine display of fabrics. I’d never seen such pure dyes and several women, including fat Lucy from the buttery, exclaimed over the quality of the wool. But the flaxen-haired wench with the bold stare demanded my notice. I couldn’t stop myself from looking at her.

  “Look at this, Nan.” Agnes lifted a heather-coloured worsted. “Have you ever seen the like?”

  “It’s not the first time I’ve noticed her in the market.” I ran the cloth between my finger and my thumb. “But I’ll swear today she wants me to pay her heed. And you’re equally determined to avoid my questions. Now tell me, who is she? If you don’t tell me, I’ll ask someone else.”

  I looked pointedly at Lucy but she pretended to be engrossed in examining a length of green wool, so I turned again to eye the buxom figure leaning against the wall. “Or better still, I’ll go myself to ask her what she wants of me.”

  “Nay, don’t do that!” Agnes seized my arm. “Pay her no mind. She’s bent on making mischief.”

  “What cause has she to single me out? Until I came to Barnard, I never clapped eyes on her before. There’s some secret here.”

  “No secret.” Agnes smoothed her calloused hand over a plum coloured velvet. “Her name’s Chrissie Burnham and her father’s a tapster in Staindrop. Her mother’ll likely be hereabout somewhere for they’re often here on market days.”

  The woman by the wall rewarded me with an insolent smile as if she sought to challenge my presence at the market. Something in the jut of her hips and careless fold of her arms implied self-assurance. The saucy curl of her red lips suggested she knew a good deal more than I did about certain matters. An instinctive prickle of dislike roused in me an irrational desire to box her ears. When I confided this to Agnes, she sniggered and whispered something to Lucy that made her cackle like a hen after laying an egg.

  “Ee, but thou art a canny wench,” she said.

  “Aye, you’ve got the measure of Chrissie Burnham and no mistake,” said Agnes.

  Our laughter disturbed the handsome figure by the wall, for she pulled herself upright and thrust out her elbows as if ready to counter some offence. I couldn’t help but admire the brazen courage of her.

  “I daresay she’s many admirers. She’s comely enough in a kind of shameless manner, but I can’t see what quarrel she might have with me.”

  The quick exchange of glances between Agnes and Lucy and the uncomfortable shuffling of the other women suddenly enlightened me, as clear as if a voice spoke in my head.

  “This has something to do with Miles.”

  The words scarce fell from my lips when an older, plumper woman carrying a black-haired child joined the wench. They huddled into conversation, and then, taking the child from her mother, for I’d no doubt this older woman was she, the fair-haired wench turned deliberately so I might see the child quite clearly. It was like a slap in the face.

  Agnes squeezed my arm. “It was a long time ago. No one can be sure about it. Chrissie Burnham’s so free with her favours hereabouts I doubt she’s sure herself who fathered the brat. Pay her no mind. She just wants to make trouble. She can’t bear to see someone else’s got him for a husband. No one in the dale could swear who that bairn’s father is.”

  I loved Agnes for the comfort of her bluster but I’d no doubt who’d sired the black-haired boy.

  I nodded at the wench in acknowledgement, and holding my head high, turned back toward the castle. “I think I’ve seen enough of the market today,” I said.

  Approaching our apartment in the Headlam Tower above the old gate-house, I heard a stifled squeal. Thrusting open the door, I came face to face with a giggling, pink-cheeked Amy. The smile fell from her mouth. Nevertheless, her eyes darted sly backward glances as she adjusted her bodice and smoothed her dishevelled hair.

  “What’s going on?” I asked a sheepish-looking Miles.

  “A jest—nothing more.” He feigned a grin and gave Amy a quick tap on the bottom. “Off with you now and no more nonsense. What would your aunt say if she knew you were tangling with such a rogue?”

  Amy’s flush deepened but the saucy pout didn’t deceive me. She looked out from under veiled eyelids, nostrils flaring, like a pretty little filly who knows she’s admired. With a bob of a curtsey she sidled out through the open door, casting a quick, furtive glance over her shoulder.

  “Nan,” said Miles smoothly, taking my basket. “I thought you’d gone to the market. Didn’t you find anything to suit your fancy?”

  I turned on him immediately, berating him for his lechery with the fury of an ale-wife until at last I could speak no more and dissolved into violent sobs. He let me weep myself into snivelling silence and then, wrapping an arm around my shoulders, drew me to the settle.

  “Have you finished with me now?” He grimaced. “Or is there more? I can’t think this outburst was caused just by my teasing a foolish serving-wench. I think you’ve something else in mind.”

  “Chrissie Burnham is on my mind,” I said. I spat the words into his face as a snake does its venom and saw the sudden recoil in his eyes.

  “Ah,” he said and turned his glance aside.

  “Is that all you have to say?” My voice shrilled with spite.

  “I wondered how long it would be before she showed up. Well, now you’ve seen her. What’s there to say? I never lied to you about my past and I’ve no doubt you heard some pretty tales of me at Middleham. But Chrissie Burnham has no more claim on me than any other man.”

  “She has your child.”

  “Perhaps, perhaps not.” He shrugged his shoulders. “She couldn’t swear to it.”

  “You would deny your own son?” I asked bitterly. Envious tears filled my eyes.

  “I can’t be certain he’s mine.” He gathered me to him with a sigh. “But I’ve seen she doesn’t want for anything. The lad’s better off than most.”

  “And then I find you dallying with Amy.”

  Miles laughed. “By the Rood, tell me you don’t believe I’d seriously tangle with Amy Sadler? I teased the wench—nothing more.”

  He held me at arm’s length so he could look into my face the better, then kissed me soundly, assuring me of his continued affection, cosseting me with tender words and soft caresses until I ached to believe him.

  “I know what you need.”

  He picked me up and carried me to bed. His hands were busy at my laces even before we’d fallen backward. I didn’t try to struggle.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Standing by the casement one fine July evening, engrossed in watching the young horses paraded to and fro in the courtyard, I didn’t hear Miles slip into the chamber. A prickle of disquiet finally turned me.

  I ran towards him then laughing with surprise and pleasure. “Oh, Miles, I didn’t realise you’d—”

  His furious roar halted me in my tracks. I opened my mouth to form a question but a blow knocked me off my feet. Brutal knuckles grazed my teeth, splitting my lip. Shocked beyond reason, I clung against the wall, shielding my head and face, while Miles spewed invective. A warm, salty taste flooded my mouth.

  “I’ll not endure foul sorcery in my household, do you hear? There’ll be no taint of witchcraft on my name! By Christ’s Wounds, I’ll beat the wickedness out of your skull if I catch you conjuring again!”

  He seized a jug from the shelf, shattering it against the hearth. Other articles followed, and I flinched from each splintering crash until the room finally stilled. In the pulsing silence, I inhaled the smell of mildew from the stonework, my heart’s panicked thud echoing in my ears. Tensed for the next assault, I listened to the fury of his breathing as he crouched over me, sensed the heat off him and willed myself not to scream.

  I knew in an instant Lucy’d betrayed me. She could never keep quiet about anything. Learning from Amy about my strange picture cards, she badgered me to read her fortune. How I c
ursed the sly little serving-wench with the pretty face. Lucy had, as they say in the north, “a tongue that wags.” Garrulous by nature, she spilled confidences with no more thought than a hen that takes corn from the butcher’s hand.

  “Get up.” A hiss of contempt accompanied this command.

  Face shielded, I rose clumsily, clutching the wall for support. Miles spun me round by the shoulder forcing me to confront him.

  In the flickering candle-light his face gleamed wolfish. The wild black hair, the unshaven flesh stretched across high cheekbones, the lips pulled back from the sharp teeth, and the fierce eyes like blue flames, resembled the features of a savage beast.

  “I’ve never trafficked with evil spirits,” I said, flinching again as he raised his other fist. “You may ask my village priest.”

  “But you told fortunes. And I told you not to!” Seizing a handful of my hair he wrenched me closer, flecks of spittle flying from his lips. “I had it from Si Henshaw in the tavern.”

  “A fitting place to hear such gossip,” I dared to answer, though I trembled in every limb.

  “Just gossip, is it?” Ale tainted his breath. His thumb pressed cruelly against my throat.

  For a heartbeat I stared into the pitiless, bloodshot eyes of a stranger, but I held my nerve.

  “I’m not wed to a witch, then?” He wavered in the face of my defiance, the storm of his anger evaporating.

  Knowing the ale fuddled his reason, I answered carefully. “I’ve never conjured the devil nor harmed anyone. But I told you, since childhood, I’ve had an ability to see what others can’t. I made no secret of it.”

  “But you told Lucy Henshaw’s fortune.” In his eyes a spark of danger reignited.

  “It was no more than a game. Everyone plays such games on feast-days. You told me yourself your mother took advice from the local wise-woman.”

  “But witches are more than tricksters. It was a witch did for my mate, Rob, at Barnet. And now she wears a crown.”

  “You mean the queen?” An appalling image of a dagger slicing through a taut throat brought bile into my mouth.

  “Aye, the king’s Grey mare!” He laughed bitterly. “She did for Warwick and his army. All those brave lads died at Barnet with her conjuring. I’ll never forget or forgive her for that damned fog.”

  Tears welled in his eyes. When I reached out a hand, he crushed it to his lips. “Sweet Jesu,” he whispered, kissing each finger-tip in turn, “I never meant to hurt you, Nan.” He touched his own trembling fingers to my cut lip, smearing the blood away with his thumb. His bewildered expression suggested he’d only just noticed what he’d done.

  “It was when Si spoke of your fortune-telling.” From his bluster he evidently sensed something of my hurt. “It reminded me of that Wydeville bitch and what she did.” He slipped an arm about me as if to win my confidence.

  I didn’t shake him off but neither did I respond. Hadn’t I confided in him and shared my closely guarded secrets? How could he destroy this trust in a single, drunken moment? Would he turn on me now as Johanna and Philippa had done? Wary as a wounded creature, I shrank into myself.

  “Surely it was the king who quarrelled with Warwick.”

  “Aye, but who is it has the king in thrall?” Miles snapped his teeth. “She hated Warwick from the first. She knew she must crush him if she were to keep Edward’s soul clenched in the hollow of her white hand. Warwick loved his men, but more than all he loved Ned Plantagenet.”

  “If Warwick loved the king why did he abandon him and swear allegiance to Lancaster?” I grew sick of all this war talk. Would it never end? “People say Warwick was the victim of his own ambition because he realised he couldn’t rule Edward any more.”

  Miles’ face grew grimmer. “If you see a fly entwined in a spider’s web, what would you do? For charity’s sake you’d kill it, not watch its life-blood slowly sucked away. So Warwick knew what he must do to save the king. That Wydeville bitch cozened Edward with her black sorcery. Warwick knew her for what she was. I tell you Nan, because I knew him—Never mind what people say! I was there! He may have fought for Daft Harry but his heart still belonged to York. Even when he knew he was damned he wouldn’t quit the field. They’d a horse waiting for him in Wrotham Wood, but he’d vowed to fight beside the men on foot and share their danger. And by the Rood, he kept his promise. That devil’s whore had him stabbed through the eye, you know. She’s no pity or remorse. No man I ever met possesses such cruelty.”

  Moved by his passion, I wrapped my arms about him, trying to lay aside my own sense of injustice. We swayed together, sinking before the hearth, tearful as two children who’ve just mended a quarrel.

  “You should have seen that fog creep in—Like an animal, a grey twisting thing that blotted out the light. It wasn’t natural. The men said it was a spell. A prophecy foretold Warwick would be undone by a wizard. It had us all frightened.”

  “Tell me about Rob.” Alarmed by this talk of prophecy, I cradled his head in my lap, stroking the dishevelled hair. An unpleasant memory stirred.

  “I met him in Burgundy. Rob was a deserter. He abandoned the Lancastrian army when Margaret let her mercenaries run mad. He couldn’t stomach such atrocities. He told me he’d only taken to soldiering to mend a heart-ache for they’d wed the maid he coveted to another.”

  My hand froze in mid-gesture. A chill enveloped me. “Robin Arrowsmith.”

  Miles raised his head, blinking in disbelief. His eyes rolled vaguely. The ale would shortly bring a drowning sleep. “Have I told you this before?”

  “Never. I knew it must be Robin. His sweetheart was my friend—Alys. My village priest told me of their separation.”

  “He died with her name upon his lips. They wed her to the reeve.”

  “And broke her heart. I’ve dreamed of Robin many times. It’s hard to think he’s dead. He was such a lively, mischievous boy. Alys adored him. Even Brother Brian knew that. It was wrong to separate them. I had an awful dream about a foggy battlefield—I called your name and woke the household—”

  “Your dreams are dangerous. I’m afraid of them and afraid for you.” He fixed his eyes on mine, their expression steely. “You must keep this strange gift of yours a secret. I daren’t think what our Duke would do if he were to find out. He abhors witchcraft.”

  “But Lady Anne—”

  Miles pressed brutal fingers on my mouth. I felt again the pulse and throb of pain.

  “I don’t want to hear any more.” There was no mistaking the warning. The shadows fell across his face, lending it an ominous expression. I shivered in spite of the heat in the room, conscious of Mara’s cards hidden in the little wooden box Harry had made me for trinkets lying but a span from where we sat together. Suppose Amy had told others about them?

  “I forbid you to dabble in such practices again.” Miles crushed me to him possessively, jealously, as if he feared I might leave him. “A child may plead innocence, but no priest will save a woman from the accusation of witch-craft. By Christ’s bones, Nan, I wouldn’t have you burn.”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  “Aunt Agnes says wolfsbane’s good for bruises.” Amy smiled, but her eyes narrowed slyly.

  Morning sunlight filtered through the chamber as she brushed the shards of pottery from the hearth. “My uncle had a vicious temper. He was always breaking things.”

  “It was an accident,” I lied. “I fell.”

  She didn’t answer. Humming a merry snatch of a tune, she gathered up Miles’ discarded cloak and folded it neatly. She rearranged the hangings, straightened furniture, picked up scattered cushions. I clenched my fists, sickened by her bright, quick movements, the confident lift of her head, the mischievous gleam in her eyes. How well did she know Miles?

  “My sister-in-law asked me if you’d tell her fortune.”

  The import of her words pricked me like a dagger’s point.

  “It’s not something I want to circulate—”

  “Oh!” Dropping a cushion on t
he settle, she looked at me with a wide, clear gaze. “I didn’t realise it was a secret.”

  “The duke dislikes such practices.”

  “But I thought it was just a game.” She looked at me coyly, stooping to retrieve a broken candle from the rushes. “It’s witchcraft the duke hates.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t want him to misconstrue such games.” I turned back to my glass dabbing some ointment on the bruise, my heart beating fast.

  “She’ll be disappointed.”

  I ignored the remark.

  “I suppose Master Forrest doesn’t like fortune-telling either.” She moved closer. I smelled the scent of lavender on her amethyst gown. The sly insinuation made me pause. I touched a finger to my raw lip.

  “It’ll be hard to stop the womenfolk talking about it.”

  I turned on her at once, confronting the power of her bold stare. “Then you must make sure you don’t encourage them anymore,” I said.

  She shrugged. “I’ll do my best.” She awarded me an almost insolent smile. “I wouldn’t want to make Master Forrest angry.”

  “You can go now, Amy.” Trying to keep my voice steady, I fumbled in my purse. “Here, buy yourself some sweetmeats. You’ve done well.”

  She snatched the coins greedily.

  Better to buy her silence, I thought as she skipped out of the chamber. She could prove dangerous.

  * * * * *

  When the leaves hung scorched gold and brittle, a messenger arrived from Middleham ordering us to return. Relief flooded me. Miles had grown restless and moody, subject to frequent ill-humours. More and more, he frequented the ale-house and came home surly and intractable. I couldn’t understand this change in him, but I blamed the drink. Though he never raised his hand to me again, I lived on a knife-edge and learned to dread the storm of violence which tore down hangings and shattered trinkets.