The Assassin's Wife

by Blakey, Moonyeen

  “You are silent, Brother Brian. Perhaps you need time to consider the implications of these accusations?” The voice caressed, soft with solicitude. “Of course, if you could help us in another matter we might be persuaded to recognise this regrettable familiarity as mere kindness, a foolish fondness—”

  Wax dripped from the candle. It congealed on the trestle in a tear-shaped puddle. The slender fingers began to tap and the ruby danced, a drop of blood in a circle of light.

  “The matter grows urgent, Brother. Why delay?” The mellifluous tone vanished, its melody destroyed by pitiless, barely contained rage. “Must I call upon Master Raymond to assist you? Come, look upon his curious array of implements—A few easy words are all we require—After all, we know from your letters you share a close acquaintance with the woman. She revealed a secret to you, did she not? A secret that threatens the exercise of justice in the kingdom. Surely you wouldn’t have a lie perpetuated?”

  Flames leaped upward. A sickening stench of scorched flesh tainted the air. Scream upon scream rang through the dark—

  Choking and flailing, I woke in the small guest room where they kept me now—no longer a prisoner, but still guarded. Last night’s embers glowed in the hearth lighting the curled form that slept before it. Nothing woke this lumpish waiting woman. Outside, in the corridor someone passed, keys jangling. No glimmer crept through the shutters. I huddled down into the blankets burying my face in my hands, trying to shut out the terrible knowledge that Brother Brian had been tortured.

  Chapter Seventy

  Miles locked me in so fierce an embrace I felt his heart thudding.

  “I thought I’d lost you. Thank Christ we’ve powerful friends.”

  “And powerful enemies too.” I buried my head against the comforting warmth of his shoulder.

  Tilting my face so he could look into my eyes, he placed a warning finger on my lips.

  A knock at the door announced a bold-eyed tavern wench carrying a tray laden with food. “Will I set this on table, sir?” She smiled at Miles, thrusting out her voluptuous bosom.

  “Aye.” He returned her smile, his eyes appraising the jutting curves. “It looks most appetising.”

  “It’s pork, sir.” Her hips wiggled as she stirred the pot and spooned the meat into two bowls. “Our Will’s famous for his stews. There’s bread here, sir.” She gave him a saucy stare, pouting her lips mischievously. “Let me know if you want more.”

  Turning to the doorway to frown at the gawky girl clutching a pitcher and two tankards against her stained shift, she said, “Shift theesen, Nell. Set jug upon table. Folk don’t want to be kept waiting while food gets cold.”

  How could we afford the best room in The Fox in Pontefract and dine in such extravagance? Who’d paid for all this? I looked at Miles’ face for answers but his expression remained unfathomable.

  “Eat, Nan.” He steered me from the hearth where the landlord had provided a generous fire. “You’re nearly as skinny as that simpleton. If it tastes as good as it smells, it’ll put some flesh on your bones.”

  I swallowed a mouthful of tender meat stuffed with almonds and saffron, spiced with cinnamon and wild garlic, swimming in a gravy of onions, mushrooms, herbs and wine. Its unaccustomed richness quickly overwhelmed me.

  “Don’t slander Stillington.” Miles spoke with his mouth full. “He and Gloucester hold the key to justice.”

  “Justice!”

  “Aye, justice.” Miles set down his knife. “What demon possessed you to withhold information about the Butler marriage?”

  “I promised Dame Eleanor. And the king, himself, told me to keep it secret. Cecily Neville knows the truth but Gloucester daren’t put her to the question. He’s as much in awe of his mother as King Edward was. Stillington shut us up at Norwich to keep the rumour quiet but now he’s eager to flaunt it to the world. I’m certain Dame Eleanor’s chaplain was murdered for what he knew. Do you wonder then why I kept quiet?”

  “Drink some mead.” He poured the honey-scented brew, slipping an arm about me, drawing me close. “The landlord assures me of its medicinal properties. It might put some colour in your cheeks. You’ve a shocking prison pallor.”

  “Blame your precious Stillington for that.”

  “Stillington’s an unscrupulous rogue.” He resumed his meal. “But for the moment, Gloucester needs him.” He gave me a searching look. “Did you say Stillington knew about the contract between the king and Eleanor Butler?”

  “He suspected it. And he shared those suspicions with Clarence—” I flashed him an implicit glance. “And I’m sure you remember what happened to him. Don’t you see? Stillington wants to set brother against brother. His actions will tip England into civil war again. Edward was just a stripling when he made that foolish promise to Eleanor. Hasn’t he proved himself a good king all these years? We’ve had peace in the country. Do you want to see that destroyed for the sake of this so-called justice?”

  “Would you let a bastard sit on the throne?” Miles threw down his spoon. Flint sparks lent his eyes added brilliance. “Do you think the Wydevilles will surrender power when Edward’s gone and the witch’s son inherits the kingdom?”

  “Would you give your allegiance to a corrupt cleric intent only on feathering his nest and an ambitious younger son who seeks to seize his brother’s crown?” I rose from my place, my voice shrill with exasperation.

  “I’ve sworn my loyalty to Gloucester.” His eyes blazed, steel-hard. “I’ll not swerve. As for Stillington, I’m not afraid of him. Remember, Gloucester saved you from the fire and for that alone I’d follow him to death.”

  “Gloucester will demand your soul,” I answered softly.

  Miles didn’t speak. He cradled me in his arms, holding me fast against his tense body. Silence grew between us. Below, the throb of the tavern with its raucous laughter, jeers, and stamping feet seemed a world far away.

  “Gloucester abhors witchcraft but he spoke up for you. When he questioned me I told him you’d bewitched me long ago and that was the only witchcraft I knew you practised. He laughed at that. He said all women knew such spells to snare men, having learned them from the cradle. I swore I knew nothing of any fortune-telling.” His hands gripped my shoulders forcing me to meet the steely eyes which intimated complicity. “Do you understand?”

  I wondered then if he knew about the cards hidden behind the fireplace. What had Amy Sadler told him? Had Lady Anne spoken of them to her lord?

  “Before you last went to London I begged you to leave the Duke’s service—”

  “Gloucester’s a patient man,” he said. He kissed the top of my head, his body relaxing as if his anxieties had evaporated like steam. “He won’t squander his strength without cause. While Edward rules he’ll play the loyal subject and you and I will profit by this forbearance.” He poured more mead. “One day we’ll laugh about all this. And I promise I will take you and Dickon somewhere safe when all’s done.”

  Taking my chin in his hand, he turned my face to his. The tenderness in his brilliant blue eyes made my stomach lurch with that old passion that had first drawn me to him. He kissed me softly, his lips warm. “Those wenches at Middleham won’t ask any questions. Everyone’s been told your arrest was a mistake.” He kissed me again and his eyes smouldered with the beginnings of desire. “Why, if the queen’s mother can escape the taint of witchcraft, can’t you do it too?” But no humour coloured his laughter then. I knew the reference contained a warning. Only the intervention of influential friends had saved the Duchess Jacquetta from trial for sorcery.

  “Time to sleep. We’ve a long ride tomorrow.” He closed the shutters against the wet March night. “Shall I call the lass to take the dishes away?”

  Over the downstairs roar he shouted for service. “You can leave the mead.” He gave the goggle-eyed kitchen maid a wink. “We’ve a mind to finish it in bed.”

  She dropped him a clumsy curtsy as if he were noble-born and after much fumbling, gathered up bowls and spo
ons, clutching them to her as if they were great treasure.

  Once among the heap of blankets I surrendered to the fatigue which had haunted me since Pontefract. Sounds of the outer world drifted away.

  “The priest betrayed you.” Miles sat propped against the bolster, a tankard of mead in his fist.

  “Brother Brian?”

  “When I heard you were arrested, I rode from London like a mad man and Jack met me near Middleham. Stillington got his information from the priest, he said. So I rode straight to the abbey.”

  “Did you see Brother Brian?” A nail of fear tore me from sleep. “What had they done to him?”

  “The Abbot tried to stop me. He said the priest was ill.”

  “You didn’t hurt him?” Upright now, aware of the draught on my shoulders, I clawed at Miles my heart thudding with fright and fury.

  “Hurt him?” Miles laughed harshly, stilling my hands. “I should’ve broken his skinny neck! But, by the Rood, when I saw him I hadn’t the heart for it. He looked so puny, sick and old. He made no excuses, I’ll give him that. He told Stillington all he knew. He couldn’t take the torture. This cowardice was a worse punishment than any I could give. He begged my pardon but how could I forgive such treachery? His words condemned you to the flames! May he rot in hell!”

  “No, don’t say that! They hurt him terribly.” I pressed my hands against my temples. The sudden image of a spiralling fall nauseated me. Clenching my teeth, I clawed at my belly, re-living the priest’s suffering. Terrifying pictures unrolled. The fire-lit room grew distant. “The world’s tumbling into darkness—” I yielded to the lure of hideous images, my voice unstoppable. “A great house is divided. Easter brings sorrow. A woman wails, tearing her hair. She beats her fists against the stones until they turn bloody but nothing will raise the children from their bed. Neighing horses summon to a monstrous battlefield—A great white steed rises above the masses. Its flanks run with blood. Nerys stands laughing out of the fire—and the flames turn into pennants—the red dragon of Wales leaps as if it means to devour the world. A crowd roars as the great horse stumbles on the bridge. I hear clanging metal, the rasp of spades on stone. Two shadowy figures prowl the dark—”

  “Stop it! Stop it!” Miles shook me, his face a mask of terrified fury. The tankard skittered away. Opening my eyes wide, I clutched at him, sinking my nails into his flesh.

  “I can’t stop it!” I howled like an animal in pain. “I’ve never been able to stop it! Ever since I was a little girl I’ve been tormented like this! Do you think I want to see such sights?” I looked deep into his eyes where the old fear lurked like a rabbit deep in its warren. “Promise me, when you’re in London you’ll avoid the Tower.”

  Before he could speak the candle guttered out, plunging us into darkness. The fire sank low, the flames flickering blue. Like frightened children we clung together. It was the first and only time we spoke of these terrible events to come.

  * * * * *

  “I must go to Jervaulx.”

  “Are you mad?” Miles’ face whitened, his eyes panicked as an unbroken colt’s. “We’re back but a day and you talk of venturing out—and to such a place!”

  “But I must see Brother Brian. I must speak to him.”

  “No!” Miles pressed me against the door. “I told you, the priest betrayed you. I marvel you can think of going to him after that.”

  “But it was because of me they tortured him.” I clutched at his shoulders, desperate to convince him of the priest’s innocence.

  “And can you forgive his perfidy?” Miles spat at me. “Jack’s no priest-lover but even he was stunned by the old fool’s cowardice.”

  “Jack? What did he have to do with it?”

  “He said some pretty boy monk named Edwin proved a useful source of information.” Contempt curled his lip. “It seems the old priest doted on him. Jack gained the lad’s friendship—though by what measures I don’t care to think—and discovered the old man spent time in London before being sent to Jervaulx—”

  “I know that.” I grabbed at his arm. “I told you the priest visited me in the city—I made no secret of it.”

  “Aye, but did you know your priest enjoyed a secret relationship with a young monk at St John’s Priory?”

  “He visited Alan Palmer—a lad from my village.” I shouted with exasperation, forcing Miles to confront me. “What nasty insinuations has Jack Green been nourishing now? And to what purpose?”

  Miles shook his head with impatience. “Stillington showed particular interest in the priest’s weakness, Jack said. The church condemns trafficking between men.”

  “So Jack Green used this hearsay to fuel the torture of an old man?” Tears of rage choked my voice. “What warped pleasure can he extract from such perverse pastimes? Or was it just a means to strike at me?”

  Miles folded me in his arms and kissed the tears from my eyes. “Jack Green won’t harm you, I’ll see to that. But you must stay away from Jervaulx. I care for nothing except to have you safe. It would be foolish to annoy the duke now we have his special protection.”

  Reluctantly I yielded to his counsel, but the implications of the duke’s protection nagged at my peace like toothache.

  Chapter Seventy-One

  All over Coverdale bells rang, their dark sonorous notes echoing through the hills, making the whole valley vibrate.

  “What’s happening?” Dickon started up from the stream where he’d been searching for trout. “Why are the bells ringing?”

  Miles raised his head as if sniffing the air for clues.

  “Something’s wrong.” I gathered up the discarded cloaks, the April day having proved warmer than expected. “We should go back to the castle.”

  Miles cast me a warning look. Ever since Pontefract he’d grown wary of anything that smacked of prophecy. He rose stiffly, hoisting the fishing pole over his shoulder. “Put your shoes on, Dickon. We’ve a good walk ahead of us.”

  At Coverham closed doors menaced us with their silence.

  “What’s happened?” Miles shouted to a lone villager by a gate.

  “Don’t tha know?” The elderly man scanned our faces in disbelief, his lips quivering. “King Edward’s dead.” He crossed himself. “Messenger brought news from London.”

  It seemed in that moment the false sunlight faded and the air chilled. I pulled my cloak around me, watching slate-rimmed clouds scudding across the heavens. As Miles stooped to pick up Dickon, I noticed threads of silver among his unruly black hair. A grim sense of our mortality struck me like a fist.

  “We must hurry.” Miles glanced up. “It’ll rain soon.”

  Our eyes locked for a moment. I knew then that this day marked the end of our comfort. There’d be no more walks upon the moors; no more days spent together as a family; no more sweet privacy. Panting over the uneven landscape, even Dickon seemed subdued. Neither of us dared ask what would happen now peace had been destroyed by one untimely death.

  At Middleham mourning had already begun. The guards stood sombre, the streets empty of life. We cheated the rain but a fretting messenger waited.

  “His Grace requires your service, Master Forrest.” An impatient lad in page’s livery stood by our door.

  Dickon, eying this messenger, demanded in a loud voice, “Will Ned be king now?”

  The page’s eyes took on an incredulous stare.

  “Why, no,” I said. I snatched Dickon’s hand. “The king’s son, Prince Edward, will take the crown. He’s the heir to the throne, not our Lord Ned.” I laughed to cover my embarrassment. “Lord Ned is the prince’s cousin,” I explained to Dickon. “Like us, he’ll swear his fealty to the new king. If he’s strong enough to travel, he’ll probably go to the coronation.” I hustled the puzzled child inside.

  Grim-faced Miles followed. “This bodes ill.” Alarmed by the ominous resignation in his eyes, I watched him brush his hair savagely. He ruffled Dickon’s curls. “Look after your mother.” Snatching up his cloak, he kissed me hard
on the mouth and fled in a moment.

  “Master Green said Lord Ned would be king one day and I might be his trusty henchman.” Dickon stared after Miles. “Where’s dada going?”

  “Master Green was teasing you.” I tried to keep my voice steady. “If anything happened to Prince Edward, his younger brother would be king. Ned may be made an earl someday, but he’ll never be a king.”

  I found him a piece of marchpane. While he sat chewing the sticky sweetmeat I flung logs on the fire. “If you’re good, I’m sure Ned will choose you for service in his household one day.” I turned to plant a kiss upon the tip of his nose, smiling with a heartiness I didn’t feel.

  “But Master Green said Prince Edward and Prince Richard couldn’t rule the land because they were base-born.” His eyes shone bright with innocence but his face assumed a serious expression as if quoting a lesson carefully taught. “Mama, will our Duke be king? Master Green said the Duke will reward everyone who’s loyal to him now. Are we loyal, Mama? I’d like to be rewarded.”

  “Master Green should be very careful what he says.” My heart thumped with a mixture of fear and suppressed rage. “Such words are dangerous. Do you understand what a traitor is?”

  Dickon frowned. “A bad person?”

  “A very bad person.” I wrapped him in my arms. “One who may be hanged.”

  He snuggled close as if considering this explanation, licking the last sweetness from his lips. “Will Master Green be hanged?” His grubby face shone with childish simplicity.

  “He may if he speaks treason.” But I knew Jack Green was far too clever to be caught. “Come now, it’s time to wash your face and then we’ll play knuckle-bones together.”

  Long after the child slept, Miles crept into the chamber. He stood by the hearth, his face grave. “The king’s been dead above a week. The Wydevilles have sent to Ludlow for their prince. I’m to ride to London tomorrow.”