“Why?” I looked up from the little shirt I was stitching to steady my shaking hands.
“Gloucester suspects some mischief.” He crouched before the fire chewing at his thumbnail. “They’re saying the king went fishing, took cold, and ate too heartily at dinner.” He faced me then, his eyes bleak. “Apparently he was taken ill on Good Friday.”
“Poison?” I had a distinct image of wily Jack Green grinding something in a mortar while Brother Silas’ back was turned. Miles shrugged, but one eyebrow lifted questioningly. His eyes burned.
“Surely not?” I uttered an involuntary laugh. “That’s the kind of tale Maud Attemore might spin.” I stuttered nervously, eager to dismiss my intuition as fantasy.
“But it’s hard to believe someone so strong and vigorous could die suddenly.” Miles narrowed his eyes. “Don’t pretend you believe these lies about catching a chill, Nan. You’re no good at dissembling.”
“He certainly wasn’t sick when I saw him at Westminster.” I recalled the huge, laughing figure in the scarlet doublet and how we’d jested about him.
“And he never ailed till now. This’ll throw the lords into confusion. A child on the throne means trouble.” Miles’ expression became vicious, his tone iron-hard. “Think of addle-witted Henry. He was a babe when he inherited the crown and much good that did us.”
Dropping my sewing on my lap, I stared into the flames, allowing my mind to recapture the melancholy lad of my visions. “They say the Prince of Wales is a scholarly boy.”
Miles’ scornful laugh growled in his throat. “Scholarly or not,” he jabbed a finger for emphasis, “he’ll be a puppet in the hands of the Wydevilles if we allow it.”
“How can we prevent it?” I thought of Stillington holding up Antony Wydeville’s severed head. “We’ve no say in the management of the kingdom.”
In the firelight Miles’ face assumed a wolfish leer. “Gloucester’s named Protector. Some of us from the north are to go ahead to the capital and await instructions. The Duke intends to meet up with the Ludlow entourage. Hastings told him the Wydevilles plan an early coronation. I’ll be lodging at Potter’s house until needed.”
“And so it begins. Don’t you remember what I told you at Pontefract?”
Miles stormed toward me and, seizing me by the shoulders, dragged me to my feet. “Never speak your witch-craft at me, for I’ll not listen to it.” Spittle flecked his lips. “If we remember where our duty lies we stand to profit by this calamity. Hastings’ man told us, when Potter heard the news he said, ‘Then my master, the Duke of Gloucester, will be king!’ He must know something more than we do.”
“Be careful, Miles.” I stroked his face, noting with dismay the glitter of excitement in his eyes. “Men have had their tongues cut out for speaking such treason.”
He thrust me from him snarling with laughter. “Can you say that to me? Your words almost had you burned, or have you forgotten?”
“I warn you only because of that,” I said. “I’ve learned my lesson well. But will you follow Gloucester blindly?” I seized his arms, forcing him to confront me, and daring to oppose him with a passion which shocked both of us. “There’s no witchcraft in a woman’s love for her husband, but there is danger in speaking out against the queen and her family. She’s a ruthless enemy and never forgets an injury. You know what she did to—”
“The Wydeville witch has had her day,” said Miles. “She’ll shortly see what it is to spurn the old nobility.” He squatted before the fire as if seeking some message in its heart while I gathered up my scattered needlework, my throat aching with tears of frustration.
“What’s become of Jack Green?”
“I don’t know. I’ve not seen him in days. Why?”
“Mistress Collins has been asking after him.” A sudden impression of Jack slipping a vial into his doublet made me nauseous. I swallowed hard, resting a hand on the settle for support. “It’s just—Emma’s gone missing.”
Chapter Seventy-Two
Miles’ sudden departure provoked a storm of speculation. Throughout the following weeks, the duchess treated me with particular favour, sending me upon various personal errands, showering me with little gifts and inviting me to sit next to her. What did she know of Miles’ errand? I anguished over this special preferment, conscious of her ladies now looking at me with pity in their eyes. I felt like an animal being prepared for sacrifice.
Stifled by the tense atmosphere of the bower-chamber, I begged to go into Middleham on the pretext of visiting Elizabeth Metcalf. “She’s been sick with the quinsy,” I lied. “I promised her husband I’d look in on her.”
“A generous gesture, Nan. And one I approve whole-heartedly. Take her some honey from our kitchens and get one of the wenches to accompany you. It’ll be busy today with the market.” Lady Anne smiled so sweetly, I wondered if she’d seen through my poor deception. “Commend me to her. No doubt Master Rob will be at home?”
This last question produced a tremor of sniggers and sly glances amongst the ladies. The duchess smiled archly at Meg Huddleston.
I took the honey but no companion, being anxious to avoid sparking further gossip. Fortunately I found plump Elizabeth among the rowdy muddle of the market. She panted for breath with the exertion of pushing through crowds, but still had enough energy to examine the heaped vegetables on a stall with careful scrutiny. “These onions are going rotten.” Her vehemence wiped the smile from the astonished stall-holder’s face. “And I never saw such withered turnips.”
She turned to me. “I hope you’ve not bought owt of this knave.” Her wind-chapped jowls quivered with indignation.
“No, I was on my way to see you.” I dragged her away. “I told Lady Anne you’d been sick. She sent you this honey.”
Elizabeth chuckled. “I never thought you capable of such tricks—but the honey’s most welcome. I suppose you’re anxious for news. Rob’s back from London. I believe he’s a message for you.”
All the way back to her house in Castle Street, she gossiped without pause. “Jane Collins talks of retiring—says she’s too old for tending children now and plans to settle in Sheriff Hutton—she’s some cousins there—And what about that pretty little nursery wench running off to meet some rogue in the village last week? Jane was out of her mind with worry. She says the lass came back very late and refused to say a word, but she’s been sly and sullen ever since. She’s an idea that knave Green’s behind it. Sally Glover says he’s led several maids astray.” She looked at me speculatively but I’d no appetite for tittle-tattle. “Did you know the coronation’s been postponed until June?” She puffed and panted through the muddy streets, her face turning the colour of her crimson kirtle. “I daresay Lady Anne’s had wind of it but she’s a devious one—just like her father. The Wydeville queen’s refusing to come out of the Sanctuary. They say she took all her jewels and treasure with her. She’s demanded our duke releases her brother, Antony before—”
“I’d no idea the queen had gone into Sanctuary,” I said, astounded. “Nor that her brother was being held—”
Elizabeth’s face bloated with excitement. “Didn’t you know Lord Rivers is a prisoner at Sheriff Hutton? Aye, and that son of hers from her first marriage.”
“But what have they done?” I asked, unnerved. “No one’s told me anything of these events—not even Amy Sadler.”
“You’ll have to ask Rob. I don’t understand the half of it. There’s been that much coming and going this past month my head’s fair mazzled with it all.”
Being much favoured by the duke, the Metcalfs kept a comfortable house and I couldn’t help admiring the luxury of its furnishings. The polished wood-panelled walls followed the latest fashion and must have cost a great deal. Wondrous embroidered cushions decorated the settle. One of them took my eye in particular— the colour of a kingfisher, it depicted a scene of damsels playing lutes.
“I saw a fine arras with that picture on it at the market in York.” Elizabeth noticed my inte
rest. “Tom wouldn’t buy it me. He haggled with the fellow over a few angels, but neither would give in.” She plumped down evidently glad to rest her ponderous bulk. “A thrifty husband’s a blessing—” She groaned, easing her great hams upon the settle. “But there’s thrifty and there’s mean.” She eased off her plum-coloured leather shoes. Stretching lumpy feet towards the hearth, she wiggled her misshapen toes and sighed with pleasure. “That’s better.” She leaned back. “Polly!” she called loudly. “Rob must be in the kitchen again—eating us out of house and home.”
The little servant girl promptly appeared with a tray laden with goblets of sweet wine and a dish of comfits.
“Tell Master Rob Mistress Forrest’s here.” Elizabeth Metcalf gulped wine thirstily. “And fetch another goblet and a jug of this wine.”
Polly nodded, pushing escaping corn-coloured hair under her cap.
“Sit down, sit down.” Elizabeth Metcalf patted the cushions. “How’s that boy of yours? Tom says he’ll make a fine horseman. I hear he’s very friendly with the duke’s lad. Now there’s a delicate piece of mischief.” She rattled on at a great pace so I’d neither time nor need to answer. I sipped the wine, watching her cram comfits into her mouth by the dozen, and all this without pausing in her speech.
“Now, mother.” Brawny, good-natured Rob entered the room smelling of leather and horse-flesh. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Mistress Forrest,” he nodded, flushing to the roots of his pale hair.
Behind him Polly waited until he settled beside the hearth, then scuttled to set a goblet and jug before him.
“Nay, Polly,” He gestured at these items, “I’ll not want this. Bring me some ale. This is ladies’ liquor.” He grinned, his open, honest face suddenly reminding me of Harry. “Mother likes to impress her guests but she won’t stop me from drinking good strong ale.” He sprawled back in his seat, long, muscular legs jutting into the hearth.
“Leave the jug, Polly.” Mistress Metcalf shook her head at Rob. “Some of us have refined tastes.” She poured herself another measure and offered me the jug, but I’d no taste for such sweet stuff. “Well, Rob, are you going to sit there all day with your knees in the fire place or are you going to tell Mistress Forrest her message?”
Rob blushed with embarrassment, shuffling his legs awkwardly. “I met Master Forrest at Baynard’s Castle—”
“Baynard’s Castle? Isn’t he in Redcross Street?”
“Nay,” Rob drew a package from his sleeve. “He’s lodging at Baynard’s Castle alongside the rest of the duke’s men. He won’t be home for yet a while. There’s been a change of plan about the coronation. He sent thee this as a token of his warmest affection.”
As I unwrapped the contents, he coughed and cleared his throat. Awkwardly, he muttered something about Miles promising to bring Dickon something from London. A smoky, crystal tear-drop hung from a delicate silver chain in a web of filigree. At its milky heart lurked a faint wash of blue.
“To match your eyes, he said.” Rob’s tone clearly suggested embarrassment. He avoided looking at me.
Beneath this fragile item lay a bundle of bright ribbons, green, topaz, rose and aquamarine.
“That’s a pretty piece.” Elizabeth Metcalf reached out a plump finger to lift the links of the chain so the jewel winked in the light. She smiled knowingly. “A lover’s keepsake, eh?”
“I’d rather have him home, pretty as it is.”
Elizabeth wheezed with the effort of pouring more wine. “What’s become of the Wydeville prince?”
“Lodged in the royal apartments in the Tower as tradition demands.” Rob looked thoughtful, hands resting on his boot-tops. I noticed his badly bitten nails. “From what I saw as he rode into London, I’d say he resembles his mother. But I hear he’s given to melancholy—not haughty like her.”
“Well-a-day, the poor child’s every reason to be melancholy with his father dead and all the burdens of kingship laid upon his shoulders.”
“Nay, mother, he’s his uncle and other barons to help him with matters of state.” Rob patted her swollen hand. “But there’s a lot of talk.” He gnawed on his finger nails while she fumed for more details.
“What sort of talk? By Saint Peter, Rob, thou’rt a poor story-teller and no mistake. Can’t tha see Mistress Forrest is anxious for all the news?”
Rob blushed again, grinning sheepishly. “Well, folk reckon our Duke’s getting mighty powerful. He’s gathered supporters including Lord Howard and Harry Buckingham. They say he’s determined the Wydevilles’ll have no part in running the country. In fact, some folk are of a mind Gloucester means to take the crown for himself.”
“What!” Elizabeth Metcalf sat up so suddenly, drops of wine flew from her goblet on to her worsted kirtle. “Hast tha lost thy reason?” She squawked and brushed the liquid off with a furious hand. “How can the duke be king when King Edward’s sons are alive?”
“I’m only telling you what folk say,” said Rob, dogged as an old ox. “You asked me what was happening in the city. Some say Gloucester works only for the good of the young prince, but I’m sure our duke has his eyes on his own advancement.”
I sat rigid, too stunned to speak. It was the first time I’d heard Gloucester’s motives aired publicly. Perhaps more suspected the duke of calumny than I’d realised.
“Are you going back to London, Rob?”
“Aye, the duke commanded me to summon more troops.”
“Troops?” echoed his mother, looking bewildered.
“He fears rebellion from the Wydeville faction. Lady Anne counselled him to take his northern troops.”
So, I thought, my suspicions were right. Lady Anne followed the current situation. “Will you take some messages for me?”
“Aye, I’ll be gone within the week. Don’t look so worried, mother, I’d rather follow after Gloucester wherever he leads, than see the Wydevilles lording it over us ever more. Father shares my views. The Metcalfs have allus kept faith.”
Chapter Seventy-Three
In the blackest part of the night, I woke lathered in sweat. Someone whispered my name. Senses heightened and alert, I lay taut, ears straining for the slightest sound. Something lingered in the shadows. My flesh crawled.
“Who’s there?”
A faint smell of ink and dust wafted through that thick darkness; the merest sigh of cloth rustled over stone.
Brother Brian.
No answer came. But gradually the strange tension eased as if an unseen spectre had melted away like fog.
Slipping on a woollen robe, I tiptoed through the unfamiliar landscape of the midnight bed-chamber. From the little truckle bed Dickon’s breathing continued uninterrupted. My hand found the door and I leaned against the wood inhaling its ancient musty scent. The reluctant iron lock grated. Beyond the opening, a darker chasm yawned. Wary as a blind beggar in a crowd, I groped into it.
Stumbling against a stool, I stifled a cry of pain. I nudged open the shutters, but no welcome glow of moonlight lit the chamber. Forced to find taper and flint—a feat accomplished with much difficulty and hard breathing—I finally banished the shadows. The feeble candle revealed the commonplace objects of our daily round. Gathering courage I fetched a shallow bowl in which I’d once collected acorns and filled it with water from the ewer by the hearth. Crouching in the soft halo of light, remembering how Mara made me gaze into the cloudy depths of a crystal, I focused my eyes on the shimmer of liquid. Gradually my vision swam beyond the surface, carrying me into pulsing obscurity where figures moved so fast and indistinct I couldn’t even snatch at their purpose. I immersed myself in silence.
A white-clad figure turned, revealing Brother Brian’s gaunt, ascetic face lit by a radiance I’d never seen before. He held his hands as if in supplication and I was filled with such an overwhelming sense of love, tears stung my eyes.
“There’s nothing to forgive,” I whispered.
His features dissolved and in their place another hooded head appeared. A
younger, softer face materialised. The eyes widened, their dark centre rimmed with viridian that faded into palest brown, the colour of a sky-lark’s wing. From a sleeve of bone-bleached linen, tapering fingers held out a roll of vellum—
A sword sliced through the air in a great arc, scattering bloody drops followed by a macabre dull thud. A crowd jeered. A woman’s bare feet tripped over cobbles, the hem of a velvet kirtle dragging through filth. Transported to a richly decorated chamber with wondrous windows of stained glass depicting the lilies of France and walls where painted birds flew on fields of gold and vermilion, a boy’s laughter trilled like harp-song. Across a tiled floor decorated with leopards and white harts leaping in regal splendour, a sprightly child executed a lively dance, his hair a golden nimbus around his merry face. I knew him instantly. A distant bell tolled. Then my Lady appeared dressed in purple velvet. A great fanfare of trumpets blasted my ear-drums with such a cacophony of sound I looked up—
Dickon stood in the doorway.
“How long have you been there?” I hustled him into the bed-chamber. “It’s not day yet. Climb up into mama’s bed and see if you can go back to sleep.”
Snuggled in the downy heat of the blankets he whispered drowsily. “What were you doing, mama, kneeling on the floor?”
“Thinking and saying a prayer for your father.”
The ease of this lie filled me with shame. I’d become a practised liar. The visions stormed and replayed in my head until a streak of pale sky pierced the dark. Since Pontefract, Miles had forbidden me to go to Jervaulx. Whenever I mentioned Brother Brian people shuffled uncomfortably. But I knew now he must be dead. He’d called to me out of that inky water. Mara told me the dead returned of their own volition but never before had I sought so willingly to unravel the secrets of the future. I knew it wouldn’t be the last time I’d use the scrying bowl.
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