The Assassin's Wife

by Blakey, Moonyeen

  Around noon the child became delirious, his wasted frame shaking violently. There followed more vomiting and purging. Antoinette, holding the basin and towel, regarded me with mute horror. Other servants began to arrive with pitiful excuses, anxious to be close to their little prince, adding their frantic, silent prayers for his recovery. The physician moved purposefully about the crowded chamber, his pale, swirling robes like shimmering clouds. Even Anne Idley hadn’t the heart to chase the watchers away.

  As morning crawled toward afternoon, sunlight gave way to rain. At last, Lord Ned raised himself upon one elbow and requested something to drink. He scarce moistened his mouth, but turned his eyes upon me with a piteous expression.

  “I’d like—”

  “What would you like, my love?” I bent to catch his words.

  “I’d like to go and play with the children.”

  The yearning in the request made me catch my breath. Did he ask for Dickon? What children could he mean? “They have such a beautiful pony,” he whispered. “I’d so like to ride it. Must I wait for my father’s permission?”

  Glancing at Antoinette, I saw the mute question in her lifted eye-brows. Someone pressed my hand. The physician sighed audibly. In my head I glimpsed the settling of a great carrion bird upon a battlement.

  “May I go to the children? They’re waiting for me.”

  “Why then,” I said, without hesitation, “you must go to them.”

  Lord Ned gave me a brilliant, heart-breaking smile, closed his eyes, and died.

  For a moment the room remained quite still. Time stopped. Then a shaft of sunlight like a long, sharp spear pierced the chamber. Gently I kissed the cooling forehead. Antoinette, recognizing the finality of this gesture, dropped the basin and fell to her knees, sobbing. One by one the anguished servants followed suit, crossing themselves, murmuring, weeping.

  Dry-eyed, I moved to the casement, warm sunlight bathing my shoulders and face. I looked out beyond the castle to where the trees stood in their spring greenery spangled with raindrops. On the grass lay scattered blossoms like pale stars. A blackbird sang. Mara’s words returned to me as out of far distance. The rosebud of York was dead. He would never fulfil the promise of his childhood; he would never wear a king’s crown. My mind beat blindly at the injustice of it, but as the sun’s rays flooded the landscape I remembered the two little Wydeville boys and my duty to them. Only then did I allow my tears to fall.

  Chapter Seventy-Nine

  “Prince Edward’s to be buried at Sheriff Hutton.” A grieving Anne Idley melted sufficiently to permit me to ride over with the group of attendants assigned to make preparations. Desperate to see Dickon, I punished my sturdy pony. I knew Ned’s loss would break his heart.

  A manservant directed me to the little chamber where Master Newton taught his pupils. Pressing my ear against the stout wooden door, I listened to the tutor’s steady drone. When he paused, I tapped and entered.

  The elderly man in the dusty black gown glanced up kindly. “Is there something you require, Mistress?”

  “I’m Johann Forrest. I’ve come for my son, Dickon.” I stared at the sea of alert young faces. Edward of Warwick smiled shyly. There was no sign of Dickon.

  “But Mistress Emma collected him.” Master Newton scratched his silver fuzz of hair, wayward brows raised in surprise.

  “Emma?”

  “Aye, the serving-maid from Middleham—Not long after the prince’s death. She said she’d had instructions from you.”

  Boys began to mutter.

  “But Emma’s not been at Middleham since she came here with the boys last year.” I shrieked, struck by a sudden, frightening possibility. “Sweet Jesu! Where’s she taken my boy?”

  The buzz of conversation grew louder. Someone dropped a book. Master Newton must have called for help for the room filled with people.

  We searched the castle from top to bottom. Rob Metcalf arrived along with a dozen men or more. They scoured the barns and out-houses. Finding nothing, the search continued out into the town, leaving Master Newton and me to question the only servant who’d seen Emma and Dickon on the stairs.

  “I thought nowt of it. I passed them on the stairs. I were taking summat to Master Skelton—aye, he wanted some twine—The lass smiled at me and the lad seemed happy enough. I never thought nowt was wrong—until—”

  Frantic, I wept and raged. As the day darkened, they tell me I tore at my hair, screaming like a demented creature. I’ve no memory of these actions. Someone summoned a physician who prepared a sleeping draught. At first I wouldn’t hear of it. When Rob returned and promised they’d begin searching again at first light, I grew hysterical.

  “Without sleep tha’ll never be able to look for him, Mistress Forrest,” he said. His kindly face looked grey with fatigue. He held a goblet while I drank. The smell of the poppy infusion brought Lord Ned’s face bright into my inner vision.

  Someone must have carried me to a bed-chamber. I remembered nothing more until I woke at dawn.

  Muddled by the effects of the draughts the physician gave me, I staggered through the following day—acquiescent, obedient, bewildered, while a search party explored everywhere between Sheriff Hutton and Middleham. Every scrap of gossip, every thread and fibre of a sighting was investigated. At night, sleep overwhelmed me like an enormous wave, carrying me through endless corridors and stairways where I wandered lost as in a maze. But no word of Dickon came.

  Rob Metcalf swore he’d not give up the search. “Mother insists the wench has run off with Jack Green,” he said.

  At my bidding, he sent messages to London taking the news to Miles and a letter for Harry, though how I wrote it remains a puzzle. If Emma took Dickon to the city, I reasoned, Harry would surely discover him.

  Wrapped in a long, hooded cloak like a felon, I rode out at last with stalwart Rob Metcalf toward London. No one dared to dissuade me.

  Clear-headed now under the moonlight, I leaned over my mount’s neck, watching his flying hooves eat up the miles, certain I would shortly find Dickon, discover Miles’s whereabouts and rescue the Wydeville boys at last. The foolish simplicity of my faith kept me from madness.

  “Your cousin Harry’s made a hundred or more enquiries about Dickon.” Rob tried to reassure me. “He spoke most confidently of a woman, he says, you know— a Maud Attemore. He says if anyone can find your boy, she can.”

  “I’ve no doubt of it.” I answered through gritted teeth.

  “And he says he can get you into the Tower, for he regularly delivers bread there. But there’s no reply from Master Forrest.”

  I wouldn’t meet the question in his eyes as he delivered this last part of his message. I didn’t want to admit, even to myself, that Miles’s silence boded ill. But the import of it festered and my dreams grew horrifying.

  Trembling, I bent over the scrying bowl. Outside, the mournful winter wind whined like a hungry beggar, battering peevishly against the shutters. Lights swirled and colours tumbled, spinning the images into focus. A scroll lay unravelled across a table, the black script indecipherable. In the cresset a candle burned with a scarlet flame. Miles sat with his head in his hands, as if in grief or drunkenness. A great rooting boar encircled him. I knew then he was the king’s thrall. And when the bowl began to fill with blood, I turned my eyes away.

  At every inn along the London road we listened avidly to gossip. Intrigue and unrest simmered beneath cheerful banter. Under the shafts of sunlight that lent radiance to the blossom-scented air, the spectre of disillusionment stalked the country. King Richard’s reign hadn’t begun peaceably. Many disapproved of the way he took the crown. The nearer we approached the city, the more the rumours increased, and the tenor of them grew sinister. The death of the little prince of Middleham sparked a disturbing animosity. “A punishment for the foul deeds his father’s done,” said a surly wench who sold us bread.

  Outside one small tavern where we stopped to water the horses, an ancient with a pot of ale accosted us ch
eerily, eager to impart his latest news.

  “We shall have a new king by the end of this year,” he said. He rubbed sleep from his rheumy eyes. “Aye, three kings in a year, a soothsayer said—and we’ve had two already—King Edward and now King Richard—”

  “And who’s to be the third?” asked Rob. He gave me a surreptitious wink, for the old man was well in his cups.

  “Why, Henry Tudor.” The fellow belched loudly and laughed at our incredulous responses. “Aye, just you wait.” He slurred, pointing a grimy finger. “You don’t believe me now, but you’ll see.”

  Later that day, dining inside a populous place a few miles from the city gates, we discovered a grain of truth in this unlikely tale.

  “That serving wench’s full of support for this Henry Tudor who means to overthrow the kingdom,” said Rob. He handed me a pot of small beer and indicated the woman mentioned. “When I asked her who he was, she laughed. ‘What dark, country hole have you crawled out of?’” He nodded toward the boisterous group about the counter.

  Rob rattled on but I merely half-listened. Again I saw Nerys laughing out of the flames and a red dragon swallowing the sun. A crown glinted under a hawthorn bush.

  “Tha’s dreaming,” said Rob. He picked up the empty pots and grinned. “We’d best be on our way afore this Tudor comes.”

  Reaching the city in the early afternoon of a sweltering day, a wicked stench of rotting fish and bilge water overwhelmed us.

  “I’d forgotten how bad London can smell. I must have grown used to it when I lived here as a child.” I thought of Brother Brian bringing me to London. And here I was again, an adult now, but just as terrified.

  We slaked our thirst in a respectable-looking tavern. Dusty and fatigued, we sat inside and engaged our portly landlord in conversation. He proved an amiable, talkative fellow, eager to share the city news.

  “Have you travelled far?” He eyed our stained, shabby garments speculatively.

  “From Yorkshire,” answered Rob. He threw several coins on the table. “And we’ve healthy appetites from all this journeying. Hast thou any victuals to offer?”

  Two generous platters of bread and meat arrived.

  “The Wydeville witch’s finally come out of the Westminster Sanctuary,” said our garrulous landlord. “The new king offered her and her daughters his protection.” He gave a knowing wink. “But I think she’s other plans. She intends to spirit the wenches overseas to make wealthy matches.” Lowering his voice, he invited us into his confidence. “Someday, folk reckon they’ll be able to challenge the usurper.”

  “So you’ve no love for King Richard?” Rob stabbed a chunk of beef with his dagger.

  “Nay.” The landlord blustered with confusion, doubtless recalling we came from the loyal north. “I’ve nothing against him. I’m just telling you what people are saying.”

  “What about the princes? The Wydeville boys?”

  “Now mistress— ” He shook his head, assuming a lugubrious expression. “There’s a mystery.” He leaned so close I could trace the scarlet thread-work of veins across the wide expanse of his nose and cheeks. “After the coronation there were rumours about some plot to rescue them, then a yarn of how they’d been hidden away in some secret place—That was around August last year—or maybe September. But since Easter there’s talk they’ve been done away with.”

  The landlord’s face suffused with colour at my sudden anguished cry. “Well, I’m just telling you what’s being said in the city,” he said. “No one knows whether they’re alive or dead. But I say, if any harm had come to them, why would the witch put herself in King Richard’s protection? It makes no sense.”

  Chapter Eighty

  In Bread Street, the Mercers’ affectionate welcome broke my control. Too long I’d held my fears in check. Now, like a bursting dam, they exploded. Sobbing without restraint, I fell into Margaret Mercer’s arms.

  “Maud Attemore’s plied me regularly with information,” a nervous Harry told us. “Aye, and sent me on several wild goose chases after some wench or other who might have been your Emma. Some of my experiences have been very peculiar!” He caught Meg’s eye and they both laughed. “You’d never believe some of the places I’ve seen. In Southwark—” His mother coughed and raised her eyebrows at Nancy and Will smirking and nudging each another. “Ah, yes—” Harry looked contrite. “Only yesterday Maud told me the landlord at The Grapes in Stoney Street had taken on a new serving wench. She was rumoured to have a child so I went along and saw the lass myself—a thin little thing with pretty, blonde curls— not much older than Nancy—”

  “That sounds like Emma. Did she have my Dickon?” I sat nursing Harry’s youngest child, little Hal, on my lap, his wriggling body reminding me fiercely of my own boy—and tears threatened.

  Harry and Meg exchanged glances. He gave my hand a squeeze. “No, I didn’t see a child and I didn’t get to talk to the wench. The landlord’s a rough fellow and very protective of her—if you understand my meaning.” He gave Rob a pertinent look. “I think he plans to keep her for the delight of certain wealthy customers—”

  “We should go there now.” I handed Hal to Meg.

  “Not so fast. It might be best if Rob and I go alone. The area’s hardly fitting for respectable women-folk—”

  “No! You must take me with you. I’m not afraid of such places.”

  In the end they yielded, but not before Margaret Mercer had dressed me up like a doxy, and Rob and Harry sported villainous disguises to blend in with the rabble which generally frequented The Grapes.

  This rowdy, old inn was one of many low looking taverns in Stoney Street. Mingling among an unsavoury assortment of ill-dressed ruffians who lurked about the dimly-lit Southwark lane, smells of sour ale, scorched meat, and unwashed flesh assailed our nostrils. I wondered how Jack Green could have brought Emma to such a place. Jack, with his fastidious, fashionable clothes scented with costly sandalwood would surely have been conspicuous here?

  Shoving our way between jeering villains playing dice, drink-sodden ancients and whispering knaves huddled in corners, we followed the loud, coarse laughter to where a fire blazed in the hearth. Here, groups of affluent-looking men ate and drank among a herd of boisterous, gaudily clad wenches. All these wore tawdry gowns pulled low on their bosoms and shrieked and postured at every opportunity, while the landlord, a huge, pot-bellied knave with a villainous looking scar above his left eye and a vast, balding head like a boulder, barked orders to the scurrying serving girls. My eyes fell immediately upon the blonde.

  An Emma, much altered and thinner than I remembered, moved with weary boldness amongst the leering men, her sweet features sadly coarsened, the curling ringlets lustreless. Her dainty hands bore soiled, broken nails. She smiled provocatively.

  “Emma!”

  For an instant she didn’t recognise me, and then fear flooded her eyes. Panicked, she flung down her tray and would have run if Harry and Rob hadn’t caught her.

  “Come lass.” Harry hustled her by the elbow toward me. “Your sister’s been looking for you everywhere. Surely she deserves a moment of your time?”

  Flinging a bag of coins to the scowling landlord, he winked and tapped his nose.

  Once outside, we dragged the girl down a murky alley.

  “Emma, where’s Dickon?” Harry placed a hand over her mouth to stop her screaming and Rob in his black cloak, ragged hat shadowing his face, towered over her menacingly. “What have you done with him?”

  “No one’s going to hurt you, Emma. Just give Dickon to me or at least tell me where he is—”

  The insolent girl turned her head to avoid me. “Jack Green has him,” she answered, sullenly. “He told me he’d marry me if I got Dickon for him.” She laughed then, a hard, mirthless laugh that spoke of painful disillusionment.

  “You don’t belong in this dreadful place.” I seized her hand. “Come back to Middleham.”

  “Middleham! Me?” She laughed again, but tears welled in her eyes
.

  “At least let us take you somewhere more suitable. Somewhere we can talk freely.”

  Back in Bread Street, under Margaret Mercer’s appalled eyes, the girl hunched by the parlour fire gulping sweet, warm wine while we questioned her. Once started, she ranted of nothing but Jack Green— how he’d promised to show her the sights of London, and she’d been bewitched by the pictures of the city he’d painted. “But it’s a filthy place. I never saw such rotten houses and rubbish just lies stinking in the streets.”

  When he first brought her to London, Jack took her to city taverns where they dined on the finest food. He bought her trinkets and fashionable clothes, lavished her with entertainments and kept her like a lady in richly furnished lodgings with servants dancing in attendance.

  “And Dickon?”

  “Oh, he told me Dickon wouldn’t be harmed.” She laughed bitterly. “He said he’d promised to take Dickon to his father—”

  “To his father? But why?”

  “I don’t know—I don’t know.” She grew petulant, and Harry gave me a warning glance.

  He coaxed her gently. “Is Dickon still with Jack?”

  “I think so.” She flashed a quick, defiant look. “He was safe enough with me when we were first there. I took good care of him.”

  “And was Jack working in the city?”

  “Oh yes.” She seemed keen to share this information. “He always had plenty of money in his purse. He carried messages for King Richard—and for Bishop Stillington. One time he went to visit Sir James Tyrell, where he used to work as a groom, but he wouldn’t take me—”

  “But did you meet any of his friends?” Harry asked.

  “Sometimes.” She frowned as if attempting to recollect these occasions. “They were all surly fellows. One of them was called John Deighton. He’s Tyrell’s horse-keeper and often came to bring Jack messages. I didn’t like him. Once he stayed with us for two days and did nothing but make coarse jests about me. There’s something really nasty about him. He has the cruellest eyes.”