The Assassin's Wife (11 page)

Saint Paul’s bells tolled five times before I slept.

Chapter Thirteen

“Here.” Mistress Mercer, still clad in her plum-coloured night robe, pressed some coins into my hand. The bleak morning light accentuated her wrinkled brow and pursed lips. “It’ll cost a shilling or two. But you look as if you need it, Nan. You’re as pale as ash.”

Gritty-eyed with lack of sleep, I picked up the basket of warm loaves.

“Go before you start your deliveries. Just ask for Nell Waters in Butcher Lane.” Mistress Mercer, handed me the little flask. “She lives above the basket-maker’s, third house on the left—the one with the iron boss on the door. If she’s not there, you’ll find her in The Crown tavern. She’s well-known about the place—There’s not a woman in the city hasn’t sought her skills some time or other.”

I found the house easily enough but the basket-maker’s assistant gave me a sly wink as I mounted the steps. About half-way up I encountered a girl on her way down. Though she clasped her dark, woollen cloak about her with whitened fingers, the hood part fell from her head, revealing a luscious fall of flaxen hair. I caught a brief glimpse of a pretty, tear-stained face as we passed. Dismayed, I watched her pause to retch and called out to offer her assistance, but she snatched up the trailing hem of her russet gown and fled, snivelling. With some misgivings I continued upward to tap on the door.
 

There was nothing of Mistress Evans in the hard-faced woman who urged me into the shadowy room, but the familiar scent of dried herbs perfumed the air. Bundles of lavender and tansy flowers hung from the beams, and on the dresser-shelves crowded an array of dusty, earthen jars and curious bowls. Other containers clustered before the fire, dishes filled with blossom-heads, seeds, nuts, and fragments of aromatic wood. From a hook above the flames, a cauldron bubbled. Inhaling the steam, I identified the distinctive, pungent odours of sage, rosemary and crushed ginger—an expensive spice much favoured by Big Hal in the kitchen—but another strange, underlying smoky fragrance made my head spin.
 

The sum she asked to refill the little flask seemed enormous.
I could have bought a new woollen cloak for that
, I thought, counting out coins.
 

“It’s costly, I’ll agree,” she said, as if she’d read my mind. Rapaciously, she thrust the money into her purse and plugged the flask with a rag. “But these herbs are from the Indies.” She examined my face. “Are you interested in the making of healing remedies?”

“As a child I visited the village wise-woman. People spoke highly of her.”

“I’ve an idea you’ve a talent for such skills yourself.” She waited a moment as if expecting some answer and I clenched my fists, aware of a growing tension in the room which set my heart drumming. She shrugged, her thin lips twisted in a knowing smile. “There’s something to cure all ailments.” Her shrewd appraisal suggested other abilities. I wondered if she had the Sight. “It’s women-folk who mainly seek me out but it’s men who make the troubles they bring.” A glitter of crafty humour sparked in her eye. “There’s many a lass who needs a tincture for her courses like you, but others need mightier remedies to ease them. Did you meet that foolish wench in the blue cloak on the stairs?”

I nodded, disturbed by the piercing, unblinking gaze. Nell Waters possessed the owl’s fearless scrutiny.

“I might have helped her if she’d sought me earlier. I’ve a tisane to bring on a woman’s courses and expel any little problems but timing’s important in these matters.” She took a jar from a shelf and removed the stopper so I might sniff the contents. “There’s extract of hibiscus in there and in here—” From another she extracted some dried white flower heads and a long, green, shrivelled pod like a bean. She proffered her palm to me. The aroma it exuded was curiously warm and rich. “Something very special. The taste, they tell me, is unpleasant, but if a drastic cure’s needed a woman must accept the consequences.” Her eyes met mine. “You’ll find what you seek but not without difficulty. You think you’re settled, but you’ve many journeys ahead of you. Loyalty can be a dangerous thing, but a woman’s hand will lead you northward. You guard your secret well but the man of God will betray you at the last.” Cupping her palm she poured the strange fruit and flower heads back into the jar. When she looked at me again, it was as if the shutters closed. “I wish you good day,” she said.

“A messenger came just after you left,” said Margaret Mercer, when I returned to the bakery. “Your priest will be here on Friday and he’ll meet you at St Martin’s. You can walk home from there together and join us for dinner.”
 

Cheered by this news I hung up my cloak and hastily extracted some coins from my purse. “This is the change from Mistress Waters. The flask’s in the basket with the bag of bread money—”

“Feeling better?” Margaret Mercer cocked her head on one side to survey my face. “Philippa tells me you saw something on the stairs when you went down in the night—something which frightened you—” Her eyes probed mine.

“I only told her I
thought
I saw someone—” I answered in a low, hesitant voice. “I was sleepy, so I probably imagined it—”

“What was it like?” She wasn’t to be fobbed off so easily.

“I thought it was a man in rich robes,” I said, truthfully. “But it can’t have been, can it? The bakery’s locked up at night. So I must have been dreaming—”

She eyed me suspiciously but said no more. The memory jangled my nerves and kept me wakeful. Then Nell Waters’ words played over in my head like a repetitive, irritating tune—“you’ve many journeys ahead.”

On Friday I waited for Brother Brian in the church of St Martin-le-Grand after my morning work. Shivering in the nave’s vast cavern, I lit a candle for my father. Watching my breath spiral upward like smoke, I hoped my prayers would be carried heavenward with such ease. Guiltily, I realised a year in London had already dimmed my father’s face.
 

“Forgive me, Nan.” The familiar voice turned me from the votive candles. “I was delayed at St John’s.”

“Are you sick?” Brother Brian’s gaunt, white face shocked me. The flesh had fallen from his bones. I clasped his hands, flinching at the feverish tremble of his dry fingers against my palms, alarmed by his troubled smile.
 

“No, no—”

“Mistress Mercer’s preparing dinner.” I urged him into the street and pulled my hood over my head. “How’s Master Palmer?”
 

“Nan, I’ve disturbing news.”

I halted by a locksmith’s swinging sign, braving the stinging sleet to face the priest. His eyes burned with shame. “Your mother’s after marrying again.”

“Who?”

“The smith. He’s a good man, and the boys are happy. He lost his wife of the sweat and has a daughter—”

“You told me Tom was enchanted by the forge.” I laughed bitterly, remembering the smith armed with a mattock, barring my path as I fled the mob. “The smith called me a witch and drove me from the village. He and my mother will be well suited.”

“Nan—” The priest laid a gentle hand on my arm but I shook it off.
 

“My mother never cared for me.” My voice hardened into sneering resentment. “She’ll be glad to have a proper daughter to help her now.”

Turning into Bread Street the smell of new-baked bread welcomed us.
 

“Come in out of the cold.” Margaret Mercer ushered us in from the street and led us into the little chamber off the hall.

We shrugged off our sodden cloaks to wallow in the fire’s welcome glow.

“Everyone else’s eaten.” She bustled us to the table, the sopping garments over her arm. “So I thought you’d like to dine here and be cosy together.”
 

Swallowing the gobbet of malice in my throat, I set about the stew hungrily, refusing to let my mother’s new marriage spoil my appetite. Presently however, an uneasy silence drew me from my food to glance at the priest. Brother Brian sat crumbling bread into dust, his haggard face immobile and absorbed.

“What’s wrong?” I set down my knife, unnerved by his strange manner. “This has something to do with Master Palmer, hasn’t it?”

The frightened flare in the priest’s blue eyes indicated my question had found its mark.
 

“I fear I’m not the virtuous man you think.” He studied his hands. “You remember Simon Dobbs?”

“How could I forget such a bully?” I spat the words, recalling Simon’s uncanny ability to scent weakness in others and how he’d revelled in tormenting me. “What’s he done now?”

A moment’s pause—then the priest drew in a shuddering breath. “He made certain remarks about my interest in Alan Palmer to his master in Brafield.”

Danger fluttered in this whispered confession. Hadn’t the village boys made similar taunts? I found myself tongue-tied.

“There’s since been some unpleasant talk in the village—some questions—”

“He likes to spread evil gossip.” I recalled the many, spiteful ways Dobbs had urged others to goad the kindly priest. I laid a hand across the tightly-laced fingers. “Everyone knows Alan Palmer was the best scholar in your class. You encouraged him to pursue his studies. No one can fault you for that.”

“But I
am
perhaps over-fond of Master Palmer.” His voice shook. “But I’d never harm anyone placed in my trust—”

“I know that.” Impetuously I squeezed his hands, touched by the embarrassment of this painful admission. “Haven’t I always brought my troubles to you? Don’t worry. Dobbs can’t hurt you with lies.”

But when the priest left I thought long and hard on what he’d told me, the delicate face of Alan Palmer sharp in my mind. Simon Dobbs’ sly insinuations made sense at last. I was no longer the innocent village girl. Since coming to London I’d learned a deal from Maud Attemore concerning the ways of men. She’d delighted in pointing out the painted catamites who hung about the streets ready to accost certain noblemen, explaining their practises to my astonished ears. Was it possible the gentle priest was enamoured of the clever lad in his care? Was it this that brought him so often to the city? I marvelled at my lack of revulsion, for weren’t the pretty boys who sold themselves in the dingy alley-ways abhorrent to me? I couldn’t consider the priest’s devotion in such wise, but I feared we hadn’t heard the last of this business.

Chapter Fourteen

Sweet-scented May burst upon us at last— brilliant with sunshine, jubilant birdsong and blossom-decked trees—fitting auspices for Harry’s wedding day. Philippa and I were sent to supervise the final preparations for the celebration meal. One of the Mercers’ wealthy patrons loaned his house for this feast, and when we arrived troops of servants were already laying the tables and decorating the dining-hall with flowers.
 

“You’re needed in the kitchens.” The spry, bustling steward sent us scampering.

“Mmm,” I groaned, “just smell that!” I rubbed my belly extravagantly and licked my lips as we passed the cook’s men toiling at the ovens among the mingled flavours of honey-glazed meat and fruit-stuffed pastry.

“My mouth’s watering already.” Philippa oohed, eyes half-closed in ecstasy. “Mistress Mercer and Big Hal prepared lots of these dishes. I can’t wait to taste them.”

“Take those platters quickly or no one will taste anything.” The good-humoured cook brandished a ladle, his plump face puce and shining with sweat.

Lit by a hundred candles, the wood-panelled hall with its long trestles draped in linen cloths festooned with sprays of blossom and greenery, silver spoons, and goblets of sparkling Venetian glass, gleamed mellow and warm. Fragrant herbs and posies of flowers scattered amongst the rushes, and in the gallery, musicians hired to entertain, tuned their instruments.

“There’ll be dancing afterwards.” Philippa giggled, her eyes sparkling. She wore her best gown with its blackberry-coloured kirtle that accentuated her curves and set off her pale complexion.
 
“I hope some of Harry’s friends will be here.”

“I love to dance.” I smoothed the soft fabric of my own gown—a dark green that had belonged to Judith once and gave my eyes a smoky gleam. My feet tapped to the snatches of old tunes they played. “In my village there was always dancing on May Day. The games and the merrymaking went on till dawn. All the lads sang raucous songs—”

“I’ll wager they were bawdy songs too.” Philippa smirked with delight and thrust a stack of damask napkins in my hands.

“They were.” I laughed at the memory of the bolder striplings trying to out-do each other in ribaldry. “It makes me blush just thinking about them! The prettiest girls wore their finest gowns and dressed their hair with flower-garlands. Everyone wanted to be chosen as May Queen.” I smiled wistfully as I placed the napkins. Alys would be queen this year. I saw her surrounded by giggling attendants and adoring swains. Would she and Robin Arrowsmith creep away with the other couples to plight their troth? “It’s a country custom for young men and women to sneak off into the forest to pledge their vows to one another on May Eve,” I told Philippa.