The Assassin's Wife

by Blakey, Moonyeen

  “We heard something, Your Grace,” I said carefully. Recalling the garrulous landlord who’d told Rob and me, I wondered at the old queen’s motives.

  “But did you know my niece, Elizabeth, is enamoured of the king?” The green eyes sparked with hatred. Her nails raked the flesh of my arm.

  Speechless, I stared at her, the idea too appalling to contemplate.

  “Oh yes.” She thrust out her chin in the old, arrogant manner I remembered well. “He lusts after her just as hotly with all the passion of a young lecher. He can’t wait for me to die.” She began to shake with silent laughter. “She’s her mother’s daughter, you see, and will stop at nothing to have him.” I couldn’t tell now if she laughed or wept. “You should have seen them dance together at Christmas,” she said, the bitterness in her voice caustic as acid. “They hung together like lovers who can never have done with touching each other.” She began to cough. The coughing turned to violent retching. Someone fetched a basin and a cloth. I held the queen while she vomited. The lute died into silence and the room grew still with horror.

  “The doctor,” someone said. A flutter of silk and velvet whisked through the door.

  “My little boy—” The queen looked up at me, her eyes grown huge in the pallid face. Blood spattered her chin. “Did he suffer?”

  “It was very peaceful.” I thought of Ned’s brilliant smile.

  “Stay with me,” she whispered, when the physician came.

  “Till death.”

  * * * * *

  Of course I saw her—the Wydeville princess. It was impossible to ignore such golden beauty. Her lovely face and hands owed much to her mother, but the voluptuous figure, the harvest-coloured hair and the sensuous nature were her father’s legacy. Among the court ladies she stood out like a lily among a field of tares. Men flocked to her, drawn against their will as the moth to the flame. She turned toward them with such a powerful combination of innocence and ardour, they grew weak with desire.

  She and the king danced around each other in that dangerous game lovers play to assert their power. Their mutual attraction both shocked and repelled, yet the court couldn’t refrain from watching. We held our breath in anticipation of the next move.

  In February, when the rumours crackled like lightning, the queen grew melancholy. One bleak morning as I helped her to dress, young Katherine Underwood rushed into the chamber, her face the colour of bleached linen.

  “Your Grace,” she panted for breath. “Forgive me.” She sank into a curtsey. “I just heard a rumour you were dead!”

  The queen swayed before me, a pale flower on a fragile stem. I held out my arms to catch her, but instead of swooning, she ran barefoot from the chamber, her honey-coloured hair unbound about her shoulders. She ran straight to the king’s apartments. We rushed after, but the king caught her in his arms.

  “Is it true, my lord,” she said, clinging to the sable velvet of his doublet, “you desire my death so eagerly rumours of my demise are already circulating?”

  “What heresy is this?” He smoothed her wild hair, but where was the tender regard he’d once lavished upon her? I saw only fear and guilt in him now. “You’re overwrought,” he said, patting her hands. “No need for such distress—”

  Around him his gentlemen twitched with embarrassment. He made some jest to ease the tension, but the queen clutched at him with all the desperation of one condemned. I noticed how he struggled to hold her at arm’s length as if afraid to breathe in infection.

  “Your ladies are waiting.” He fobbed her off with this feeblest of excuses, turning her gently towards us. I took her hand. A glimmer of recognition sparked in his eyes.

  “Mistress Forrest, the healer.” The thin-lipped smile appalled me. “You warned me once of many enemies. Do you remember?” Including his gentlemen, he added sardonically, “I think we have but one enemy to consider now, haven’t we?”

  Distracted by a crimson clad figure gliding towards the king’s elbow I ignored the strained laughter. The figure laid a daring hand on the royal sleeve and the yellow hawk-eyes of Bishop Stillington locked on mine.

  “Look after my wife.” The king shared a conspiratorial smile with the prelate while I clenched my fists against the overpowering essence of evil. How could Gloucester have become such a monster? “She believes in your skills.”

  I urged the queen away but he called after us. “If you’ve some charm to rid me of this Tudor, Mistress Forrest, I wish you’d let me know of it.”

  The bishop’s diabolical chuckle echoed down the corridor.

  Like a sleepwalker the queen returned to her chamber. I left her there with Katherine and went to find her physician. On the steps outside I encountered Jack Green and reeled under the alarming sensation he’d been waiting for me. He stood, clad in the royal livery now, and seemed very much at ease.

  “Good morrow, Mistress Forrest—” He awarded me a smile of such brilliance he might have been greeting an old friend. “Amy promised I’d see you again, but I didn’t think to find you at court.”

  “The queen sent for me.” I stared boldly into his impudent face.

  “Of course. The queen still wields some influence, I believe.” His gloating tone abraded me. “Poor lady, she clings too fast to lost causes. I doubt your skills can offer her much hope now.”

  “I’m bound to her by gratitude,” I said. “She raised me up to be her waiting maid, and I won’t forget such favours.”

  “Loyalty is admirable but sometimes it’s necessary to forge new alliances to protect one’s interests.” His lips curved in the old weasel smile and his eyes gleamed menace. “Commend me to your husband.”

  I winced at this deliberate blow. But I held my nerve, thrusting out my chin and straightening my shoulders. “You’ve climbed high, Master Green.” I steeled myself to smile. “But a fall from such great height might prove fatal.” I hoped he thought of Brother Brian. “My husband learned that well.”

  Though the doctors plied the queen with their drugs, the sickness gnawed too deep. But it wasn’t just sickness destroyed her but the king’s absence which broke her heart. From then on he shunned her company and her bed, pleading the advice of the physicians and urgent matters of state. The truth was far more sinister.

  Chapter Eighty-Five

  “How dark it grows!” Katherine chewed her lips nervously.

  We clustered by the casement watching the March skies with bated breath. The astronomers predicted a great eclipse of the sun. Below in the noisy street, people gathered in horrified clusters. They pointed upward.

  “A wise-woman foretold disaster would begin with a blotting out of the sun.” Grace craned her neck for a better view. “And Master Penman says an eclipse is a mighty omen for he’s made a study of the stars. What do you think, Nan?”

  “It’s not even noon but it’s almost as black as night.” Tremors shook Katherine’s slender body. “I don’t like Master Penman’s eclipse, however important he thinks it.”

  She flitted away from the window, but her words awoke a memory. Hadn’t Mara spoken of the noontime of the year? And hadn’t I foretold the queen of this eclipse the last time I’d read the cards for her?

  “The queen’s awake,” Katherine called.

  I joined her by the great carved bed, wondering how long its occupant could endure such sickness. I’d made a promise but knew it was almost fulfilled.

  The queen’s wasted body prevented her from rising but the Neville spirit burned as strong as ever. She held my hand with a tenacity I wouldn’t have believed possible.

  “What month is it?”

  “March, Your Grace.”

  “August,” she said. Her voice had grown so weak, I leaned close to catch the words. “Take your boy back to the north, Nan, away from this cruel city.”

  I squeezed her hand but she made no more effort to speak.

  Shadows plunged the room into awful darkness. The grip on my fingers loosened.

  Katherine, already on her knees, sh
uddered at the strange heavenly phenomenon that hid the sun. Softly, I called the attention of the ladies by the casement and there began a rustling fall of bent knees and murmured orisons. I didn’t pray. I thought of the little cook-maid whom I’d told would one day wear a crown, and Miles crouching by the hearth eaten away piecemeal by fear, just as surely as the queen had been eaten away by grief.

  Chapter Eighty-Six

  Under the Mercer’s tutelage Dickon flourished. Looking at him, a mixture of aching love and dismay wrenched at my heart. Already he showed the promise of Miles’ height and build. Full of new-found confidence, he greeted me, affectionately eager to relate his adventures. I ruffled the tousled black hair that so favoured his father, and the brilliant light in his eyes brought a lump into my throat. I was glad he hadn’t inherited the Sight. His mind danced too feverishly for contemplation. Like his father, he joyed in the sheer animal pleasure of life, too firmly rooted in the things of this world to be a seer. Yet a wayward streak disturbed me. He talked of nothing but being a soldier in the Low Countries.

  “He loves to watch the tradesmen at their work or the boats sail up and down the river. He’s a powerful asset to me with the deliveries.” Harry’s words soothed my misgivings. “He’s too quick-witted to waste his time on soldiering. Mark my words, Nan, he’ll prove something better when he’s grown. And for all his talk, he loves London well enough.”

  The next morning Dickon took me into the city.

  “Look! He pointed at windows full of Flemish tapestries, shelves of silver necklaces, fine swords and daggers etched with patterns, cunningly carved wooden objects, bowls of sparkling Venetian glass, and costly ornaments cut from bleached bone. “I know all the best places to buy now.”

  Proudly, he led me through the streets, greeting acquaintances and doffing his cap at stout matrons.

  Outside the cutler’s shop we paused to speak to Maud Attemore, surrounded by a rowdy assortment of raucous wenches, clucking matrons, and disreputable fellows eager to jeer at her tales. Thrusting them all aside, the buxom gossip in the patterned ochre gown and embroidered, velvet cap, muttered to me in an undertone, her bold face stricken.

  “Best keep your name a secret. There’s a wicked rumour those Wydeville boys were killed by some knave named Forrest. You should get away from London as soon as you can.” She kissed my cheek, squeezed me in a hug, and pressed several fat pennies into Dickon’s palm.

  Before I could respond, a portly matron with bright cheeks pushed in front of me, declaring, “Now, Maud, you old mischief-maker, what’s this about that wanton wench in Littlewood Street? I heard she—”

  Dickon caught my arm. “What’s wrong, Mama?”

  “Take me back to Bread Street, Dickon,” I said, my attention caught by a shadowy figure sneaking apart from the loiterers and disappearing among a web of alleyways. “It’s not safe here.”

  Without Anne Neville’s protection I realised I stood now in gravest danger. Maud’s warning reminded me that my old enemies wouldn’t rest until they secured my silence.

  * * * * *

  “Will the Tudor be king?”

  The question hung on everyone’s lips.

  I didn’t need the cards or the scrying bowl to reveal this secret. Long ago I’d seen the bloody battle that would bring King Richard down. Already he moved towards his fate, having travelled to Nottingham to muster troops. Only when I heard the Tudor had landed in Wales did I summon the spirits.

  “Nerys, Nerys,” I called in the silent hours when the house slept. Recalling Mara’s admonition about calling back the dead, I watched the water swirl with light as Nerys came to me holding high the standard of the red dragon. She beckoned. As I leaned toward the bowl, my unbound hair touching the surface of the water, Nerys commanded me to stand with her behind a line of soldiers looking up toward a hill.

  Down the hill and across the plain a great white charger galloped, its hooves churning clods of earth into dust. The sun danced on the crest of its rider’s helm, dazzling my eyes. Uncanny screams tore the air. The thunder of horses shook the earth so that it quaked as if in terror. Rider and retinue bore down, hacking their way through a forest of spears and pikes. The hot, familiar reek of horse breath scorched my face. Bloody rain blurred my vision. Glinting in the sunlight, a sword arced down. The red dragon plunged and wavered.

  “Treason!” cried a voice. A black tide of soldiers swooped down like ravens upon the white horse, cutting it to ribbons. The rider fell, crushed amongst a hammering tumult. But someone held out a glittering object. When I realised it was the crown, I reached to snatch it—

  “Will we go back to Middleham?”

  “No, not to Middleham.” I swallowed hard. “Somewhere new where no one knows us.”

  Dickon’s voice quavered. “Shan’t I see my cousins again?”

  “Of course you will.” Did he notice the traitorous wobble of my own voice? I forced a cheery note into my explanation. “We’re going to Mistress Proudley’s. She’s Meg’s oldest sister and our cousin, so we’ll be among friends.”

  “Is Lincolnshire a long way from here?”

  “Several days’ journey,” I answered, truthfully. “But with swift horses and a stout heart a man may be in London several times a year.” I knew he didn’t relish living among strangers. “Judith has a shop selling produce from her husband’s farm. She needs help and has offered us work and lodgings. It’s a piece of luck we can’t spurn.”

  Memories tugged me back to the fortune-telling. Soon I’d see the landscape I’d described to Judith all those years ago. Dispassionately, I contemplated all the events that had brought me to this journey. I saw again the pattern and the shape of destiny unfold like a vast, vivid tapestry caught within the confines of a monstrous loom. Hadn’t Mistress Evans warned me I’d a long road to travel?

  King Richard paid me a generous pension for Miles’s loyalty but I’d little hope the Tudor would continue. He showed no love for the usurper’s henchmen, nor compassion for their widows. And Maud proved right about us not being safe in the city. Too many days I grew aware of a familiar figure watching me from dingy corners. Recently he dared to follow me into the market, taunting me with sly insinuations.

  “The Tudor’s averse to sorcery, Mistress Forrest.”

  “Have you nothing better to do than torment widows, Master Green?” I held my head high, the dull ache in my heart making my voice hard-edged. I knew he’d take any coins he could for whispering secrets. Before long, the Watch would come looking for me.

  Besides, ever since the Tudor took the crown, new, wilder rumours circulated. People whispered the Wydeville boys had escaped the Tower. Some even swore they’d seen them. And lately someone dared to ask: Who gave the order for their murder? Was Gloucester truly to blame? Who else might profit from their deaths?

  They say the Tudor’s anxious to suppress such speculations. But suppose Jack Green could solve the gossips’ newest mystery? What might that be worth? Perhaps, I thought, remembering Gloucester’s vigil by his sick son’s bedside and his desperate final courage, Master Green already served a new master?

  “It’ll be a great adventure.” I tried to soothe a dubious Dickon, slipping my arm into his. “The Proudleys have several boys and one is near to you in age. You’ll have a new friend to keep you company.”

  “I miss Ned.”

  Tears stung my eyes. “I know, but it wasn’t to be. Ned was too good for this wicked world. You must be glad he’s at peace now.”

  My voice shook dangerously but it wasn’t Lord Ned’s face which darted into my mind, but that of Miles. His guilt lay heavy on me. But I couldn’t learn to regret my love for him. His last secret lay safe in my keeping. Fighting tears, I crossed myself and said a silent prayer for the comfort of his soul, wondering what Brother Brian would have thought of this new piety. And thinking of Miles, Mara’s words came echoing back—Yours is a thorny road, child, but love is never wasted or forgotten—For a moment I was there, in the velvet blackness o
f her shelter all those years ago—

  The rumble of cartwheels shook me from memories.

  “Here’s Harry. Carry our bundles, for you’re the man of the house now.”

  But Rob Metcalf took them. “Harry sent word of your plans.” He flushed with embarrassment. “I thought to guide you on the journey. I’ve a fancy for farming in Lincolnshire myself and I’ve found a place that might suit. Perhaps you’d consider visiting some time?”

  Extraordinarily touched by Rob’s devotion, I smiled at the memory of Genevieve’s giggles. “Perhaps I might,” I answered. I pressed his hand so the flush in his cheeks deepened. “I’d be glad to know someone trustworthy would watch over my son.”

  “Be sure and learn your letters so you can write to us,” Harry told Dickon. “I’ll warrant you’ll be back in London sooner than you think.”

  Impulsively the lad flung himself into Harry’s embrace, fighting tears.

  As the cart bore us away through the twisted streets I thought how once I’d longed to leave the city and return to my village. Now I abandoned it with regret, thinking of those whose company I should miss. Unbidden, other loved faces returned—Jane Collins busy in the nursery; pretty, foolish Emma at the fair; Joan and Lionel boasting of Sudeley; Genevieve Mountford giggling at Westminster; Maud Attemore in flamboyant gown, stout arms upon her ample hips, head thrown back, mouth curving in a saucy grin, laughing at the latest scandal—Would I ever look on them again?

  On my lap I held a precious bundle—Brother Brian’s journal wrapped in the length of cloth-of-gold given to me by the late queen, and Mara’s painted cards—all my treasures together. One day Dickon would have children and among them there’d be a new owner for the seer’s tools.

  Above the city gates a single bird like a hunchback in black rags crouched against the wind, draggled plumage fluttering. It cocked its head and winked an eye, flexed and fanned the wide, strong span of its wings. Momentarily, weak sunlight polished the feathers to an ebony gloss, transforming it into a thing of beauty. Nothing is ever quite what it seems, I mused, admiring the canny, handsome scavenger.