The Assassin's Wife
Read The Assassin's Wife Online
Authors: Moonyeen Blakey
The Assassin’s Wife
- Copyright © 2012 by Moonyeen Cooper
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.
ISBN-13: 978-1-61179-218-8 (paperback)
978-1-61
179-219-5 (e-book)
BISAC Subject Headings:
FIC014000
FICTION / Historical
FIC024000
FICTION / Occult & Supernatural
FIC037000
FICTION / Political
Cover design by Christine Horner
Address all correspondence to:
Fireship Press, LLC
P.O. Box 68412
Tucson, AZ 85737
Or visit our website at:
www.FireshipPress.com
1.0e
Table of Contents
Part One: Stanwode, Northamptonshire, 1460
For my parents,
Frederick George and Muriel (nee Higginson) Blakey,
who never stopped believing in me.
And for Eddie, a rock and a haven.
What would I do without you?
Acknowledgments
A big thank you to the stalwarts of Yarburgh Writers’ Group who endured all the rewrites of
The Assassin’s Wife
— especially Tom Beardsley, Sandra Bensley, Lesley Dover, Michelle Elliot, Dave Evardson, Kris Gleeson, Millie Gough, Chris Green, Louise Law, Sylvia Lover, Frank Payton and Jen Ward — whose constructive criticism proved invaluable. And thanks to former Arts Development Officer for Lincolnshire, author Paul Sutherland, Editor of
Dreamcatcher
, who continues to monitor our progress.
Special thanks to authors Sally Spedding and Karen Maitland who have not only lent a sympathetic ear, but offered generous amounts of practical advice. Their continued support and enthusiasm keeps me buoyant!
Thanks, too, to Cleethorpes Library Staff — particularly Jane Coward — and to the Cleethorpes Library Readers’ Group, to Michelle Elliot for her photographs, to Edmund Harness for rescuing me from the many and devious schemes of computers, to Kris Gleeson, whose wisdom and friendship remains inspiring and unfailing, and to my patient neighbour, Rhona Emsley, a shoulder to cry on and a tower of strength in matters practical.
And fond memories of absent friends who also played a part in this novel reaching fruition: Joan Hackney, Barbara Harness, David Mordaunt and Heather Sparnon.
Last but not least, my thanks to the staff of Fireship Press, especially my erudite, energetic and patient editor, Jessica Knauss.
Prologue
“It will be a cruel death.”
The smooth voice brushes my ear, soft as a caress.
The wood is too green. Only thin trails and wisps of smoke trickle along these damp limbs wrenched from the living tree, spiralling among the intricately-woven basket-work. Caged, the girl stands bound and mute, her head lifted as if to sniff the acrid scent that rises, teasing and prickling the nostrils. Around her the spectators snatch a breath, thrust against each other, tensed for the entertainment that begins now.
Tiny shoots of flame race across the dry sticks some charitable wretch has thrown, licking and sucking at moisture until the black stench becomes a storm-cloud. We are engulfed. Complaining, the worshippers jostle for air and blink away tears.
“I can’t see!” The voice is querulous.
The crowd surges forward, open-mouthed, panting with excitement. Bodies press closer as I struggle to escape the crush, the reek of tainted breath, but stout hands hold me. I’m grateful for the mask of fog, though my ears still catch the crackle and the hiss, the roar of burning wood. When the smoke clears, the flames are ragged, gaudy butterflies that leap and plunge, fluttering into ash. The sacrificial figure twists and capers among them, begins to sing. It is an anthem to pain. We gasp and clutch, rank with sweat, straining towards a terrible fulfilment.
“The fire is a demanding lover,” insists the voice at my ear. “See how closely it embraces.”
I shrink from the heat but the guards’ grip is merciless. The song has become a howl, the dance a frenzy.
“Nerys! Nerys!” My voice is hoarse, useless. I am shamed.
Through the gamey smell of roasting and the stinking smoke, I watch her features begin to melt and drip like candle-wax. The black strands of her hair ignite and flare like sun-rays, copper-bright around her head, in brief glory.
Sweating, panting, we moan together, shudder and roll upon a spasm of pleasure that peters out into a mere sigh.
Spent and hushed, the crowd separates. The spell is broken.
“You see now what it is to burn a witch.” The voice is hard, implacable.
I close my eyes. Tears ooze between my lashes but it is fear, not grief that feeds them.
“I don’t want to see,” I say. “I don’t want to see.”
Chapter One
“Liar!”
“But I did see him! I did!”
Johanna’s fist struck me hard across the mouth, splitting my lip.
Sensing blood, boys and girls spilled out of trees and across wasteland. Their voices soared, excitable, unstable. Soon a jostling circle harried us with jeers and shouts.
“Liar! Liar! Liar!”
Johanna seized me by the hair and forced me to my knees. Fleetingly I glimpsed the shifting web of faces hanging over me—mouths spitting spite. And all the while the noise grew louder like the roar of kindling catching fire.
Dragging, shoving, stumbling, they brought me to the pond. Sunlight dappled its lazy, scummy surface. Its poisonous reek tainted the breeze.
Fingers still embedded in my hair, Johanna pushed my face deep into the water. The shock of it was like a bite. No time to scream. No time to breathe. Liquid flooded my mouth and nose.
Wrenched upward for a blessed moment, I snatched at air until she thrust me under. Another rise and gulp, a blast of sound, and then the press, the drag, the pull, the awful, greedy darkness—
“For the love of God!”
I retched among the reeds, noise exploding in my ears.
“Do you want her to drown?” Brother Brian’s voice shook with horror and disbelief.
“She said she’d seen spirits.” Johanna’s harsh voice condemned me.
“She makes up stories. She’s just a little girl.”
“She told me she’d seen my brother walking by the water-mill. But Will’s been dead three months since Easter.”
“She’s after telling you some tale she’s fashioned—”
“Liars should be punished!”
“Yes, but according to their age and by those who understand these matters, not by a mob. Go home now, all of you.”
The kindly priest spoke firmly and the group obeyed, but not without some sullen murmurs.
“Can you walk?” He held out a hand.
I nodded, twisting water from a sodden skirt. Green-stained and stinking, I rose, trailing slime from tangled hair.
He led me along the dusty, winding track to the yew-shadowed church. Inside its cool, dark walls I stood, uncertain, arms clasped about my shoulders. Looking upward, I glimpsed the stone carving of Saint Michael, sword raised high, straddling a crouching demon with curved fangs and scaly tail. Although the grim-faced angel was reputed to protect our village, I felt no reassurance in his stern presence.
Gently Brother Brian steered me to the little chapel where he kept his vestments. Dripping and shivering, I waited, transfixed by the flames of Hell leaping up the painted walls, appalled by mocking demons wielding pitchforks, their wide mouths full of pointed teeth.
“Dry yourself.” Bundling my ruined shift into a sack, he offered a coarse cloth. “No need to be afraid.” He turned me from the sooty demons to wrap me in a dusty cloak. The reassuring kindness of his pale features comforted and I lifted my eyes in gratitude.
He drew a bench from a pile by the wall where an open press revealed some scrolls, some pots of ink and goose-feather pens. Across a trestle lay scraps of vellum decorated with loops and curls and inky finger-marks. I remembered then he taught the village boys their letters and marvelled at these curious scratchings like bird-feet in the snow.
He followed my gaze.