The Assassin's Wife (12 page)

“Did you ever do that?” Her eyes danced with mischief.

“No, you jade.” I laughed, pinching her arm. “I left long before.”

“I’m glad to see you in such a cheerful mood, Nan.” My Uncle Will waited by the door. I rushed to welcome him and Aunt Grace, and for a moment we stood together at the back of the great hall, admiring the servants’ handiwork.

“You were such a sad-eyed, angry little wench when you first came to London.” Uncle Will’s brown eyes teased. “Margaret Mercer’s wrought a miracle since she took you into the shop.”

I’d no time to reply. Behind them pressed other guests and the jostle for places began. Amidst laughter and shouting the newly-wed couple were escorted to the high table, and the chamber soon echoed with cheers, the tinkle of glass, and roars of merriment. Servants scurried to pour wine, others to carve and serve platters of smoking meats—haunches of wine-drenched beef, clove-studded pork, lamb redolent with rosemary, huge pigeon pies, succulent capons crisp and bronze-breasted, fat ducks and apricot-stuffed geese.

Philippa’s jaw dropped open when a great coffin of golden pastry spilled open to reveal an enormous ham. As its hot savoury flavour wafted deliciously under our noses, she laughed aloud. “No noble wedding could rival this.” She nibbled a fistful of raisins and almonds, relishing each crunch. Although placed far from the high table, the array of wealthy merchants and their finely dressed wives dazzled us. It was my first wedding feast, and looking back I think it was the best I ever attended.
 

“Meg’s gown must have cost a fortune!” Philippa goggled at the heavy brocade embroidered with false pearls. I thought it as exquisite as any I’d seen on a noblewoman, and Meg’s pale complexion glowed rosy in the candle-light. Beside her, homely Harry in his blue doublet seemed handsome as a prince. The loving glances that passed between them brought tears to my eyes. Would I, one day, enjoy such happiness?

A burst of applause interrupted this day-dream. Servants appeared bearing a subtlety upon a silver platter. Two turtle doves carved out of pastry and gilded with gold were set down upon the high table. In their beaks they held a single knotted ribbon signifying the bond of marriage. It seemed a shame to watch this magnificent confectionery broken and distributed amongst the guests, but I devoured my morsel stuffed with sweet marchpane as eagerly as the rest.

The trestles were cleared at last and the finely furnished hall rang with praises.
 

“Hal Mercer’s paid for this feast and refurbished chambers above his shop for the young ones.” A merchant’s wife with painted eyebrows confided this piece of information gleefully. “It must have cost a pretty penny. And you won’t believe the ample dower the bride’s brought young Harry.”

“Aye,” nodded her heavy-jowled husband, “her folk have lavished them with a feather bed and bolsters, linen sheets and embroidered coverlets, as well as—” He began counting on his fingers, “an oaken chest and carved chairs, bowls, basins, and goblets of ruby glass—”

Music struck up, interrupting his extravagant list, and muttering swift excuses, Philippa and I scuttled away to join the dancing.
 

The revels continued long into the night and finally I plunged into bed, giddy with giggles, my feet sore and my head spinning.

In the kitchen next morning, however, my temples pulsed painfully from the effects of unaccustomed wine. Big Hal shielded his eyes against the light and rubbed his head ruefully, muttering something about getting back to normal life. Smiling grimly, I gathered together my basket of loaves and pies and ventured out into the already busy streets. The shouts of the vendors jarred in my ears and the greasy smells of cooking meat churned my stomach, but somehow I managed to make my rounds. Nevertheless, when inquisitive Maud Attemore tried to engage me in conversation, I cut her short. “I’ll tell you about the wedding later.” I yawned, screwing up my eyes with pain.

“Oooh! Sore head, is it?”
 

The throb of drums prevented a response. Flocks of ragged girls and boys collected along the street as the rhythmic beat grew louder.

“What’s happening? Is there a procession today?” My head rang with the noise. Maud shouted to her serving wench to look after the shop, and dragged me into the boisterous crowd already swelling on the corner.

“Warwick’s on his way to speak to the king.” A stout butcher’s wife in a tan kirtle joined us. Maud craned her neck for a better view. A buzz of excitement travelled through the throng. Shouts and cheers heralded the arrival of the first foot soldiers in their bright red livery emblazoned with the bear and ragged staff. Some of the bolder wenches threw flowers. Behind these troops came the drummers, and at their heels the trotting horse-men, proud and upright in polished leather saddles, their woollen cloaks billowing behind them.

Maud yelled and pointed but the pulse of the drums was too loud. Following the line of her arm, I saw a tall figure in an armoured breast-plate mounted on a huge, dappled horse, caparisoned in crimson. Bare-headed, this handsome nobleman carried a burnished helmet under his arm, one hand gripping the reins, the other resting on the pommel of his sword. As he passed, I studied the arrogant lift of his brow, the fierce, aquiline features, and the sheen of honey-gold hair. The mouth expressed grim purpose but the blue-green eyes blazed with triumph.

Behind him marched the other ranks. Men and women waved and roared as these disciplined lines swept by, for it was a brave display clearly designed to impress.

A shock of black hair caught my attention. Standing on tip-toe, I strained to catch a closer look at the tall, muscular figure among the soldiers. The familiar face made me catch my breath. I waved a hand, and for an instant a pair of startling blue eyes locked on mine. I couldn’t tear my gaze away nor control the lurch in my belly when he smiled back, but his fellows roared about him, thrusting him onward and my blue-eyed man strode away too fast.

“What do you think of the Kingmaker, then?” Maud Attemore turned on me eagerly when the drum-beats faded and the last horsemen disappeared.
 

“He seems very sure of himself.” My attention fixed on empty distance.

Maud grinned, pushing me back through the babbling people, a bustling bumble-bee of a woman in her black and tawny gown. “And well he might be. Since he returned from France he’s more popular than ever. They say his men will follow him anywhere. And what magnificent fellows they are, eh? I saw you looking! How do you fancy being a soldier’s wife, eh, Nan?”

“What! And have him march off to war and be carried back with an arrow in his throat?” I was still stirred by the sight of the black-haired man. Foolishly romantic now, I’d already fallen in love with the man of my visions. Had I really just seen him in Warwick’s army? The memory of his impudent smile stayed with me as I sauntered home. How could I find him? A fanciful idea of somehow meeting him in earnest banished my headache and set me smiling. Several swains shouted bawdy remarks as I passed them.

“Will you take a stroll with me, sweeting?” A youth with tousled brown hair called to me from a tavern door. “I’ll wager you’ve been admiring Warwick’s men today—but I’ll be here tomorrow, and the day after, not marching off to war. I’d be glad to keep you company!”

I tossed my head the way I’d seen Philippa do. The approving glances this won from men of all ages delighted me. Perhaps I’d make a match after all!
 

At supper I entertained Big Hal with Warwick’s parade.
 

“More trouble.” He shook his head. “These barons and their quarrels will be the ruination of the country.”

“But Mistress Attemore’s a great admirer of the Earl of Warwick.” I tried to stifle a yawn. “She says he’s very generous to the poor.”
 

“A mighty clever man,” replied Big Hal, “but don’t listen too much to Maud Attemore. Gossips like her thrive on hearsay. We’ve no need to worry about him and his schemes. The bakery’s what matters. People always need bread.” He laughed at my yawns. “Get yourself to bed, Nan. It’s been a long day.”
 

Philippa showed no desire to talk. Closing my eyes, I nestled down in the bed, recalling with pleasure the comments I’d roused amongst the youths in the streets. If only I could find my black-haired man—

My dream drove me through endless, winding corridors where stones oozed damp and flickering torches smoked. A reedy river smell clung about the place, and sounds grew distant, muffled by barred windows and stout walls.
 

“Don’t hurt me!”

Sudden fear filled the chamber like the frantic beat of black wings. A child’s white face pierced the gloom, its mouth stuffed with feathers, and then the walls unravelled. Stone by stone the dark descended and pressed and pressed—
 

“Jesu! What a noise!”

Philippa was squealing like a sow in farrow while Mistress Mercer panted up the narrow stairs.

Drenched in sweat, my arms tangled in the bed-clothes, my voice hoarse with shouting, I glared at Philippa cowering in a corner, crossing herself and whimpering.

“What’s the matter?” Margaret Mercer’s voice betrayed alarm.
 

“She woke me with her screaming,” began Philippa at a furious pace. “She has these terrible dreams and it frightens me. She tells horrible tales of murder—and she sees spirits. I can’t stand it anymore.”

“Get dressed and go down to the bake-house,” Mistress Mercer told the hysterical girl. “Hal’s there already, raking out the ovens. Ask Harry or Meg to give you something to eat. If you start work early, you’ll not have time to dwell on nonsense.”

“I’ll not stay another night with her.” Philippa threw on her clothes. “She’s a witch.” Her voice shook with a passion which made me wince but I noticed Margaret Mercer didn’t scold her. Instead she fixed me with a wary glance.
 

“Now, Nan,” she said, when Philippa was gone, “what am I to do with you?”

“It was just a dream.” My heart still thumped with fright. “But it was so real—It was all muddled up. I didn’t mean to shout—”

Margaret Mercer’s eyes pierced mine. “Just a dream, eh? These dreams of yours cause a deal of trouble.” She sat down heavily on the edge of the bed. “Your Aunt Grace was very disturbed by your tales and some fortune-telling episode frightened your Uncle Will out of his wits. And now Philippa—What are we going to do?”

Speechless, I stared into her face, realizing she intended to send me away. The thought of leaving Harry and the comforts of this place I thought of as home, horrified me. Hadn’t I tried to suppress the Sight? Mounting rage forced me to confront the future. Why must I be different from other girls? Would I be sent from house to house for the rest of my life, a victim of this curse, forced to see the future and yet unable to prevent it? It didn’t matter what I did, I always ended up in trouble. What were these spirits? Was I truly a witch?

“I don’t want to send you away.” Mistress Mercer lifted up my chin with her finger and thumb so she could scan my face. The kindness in her homely features broke my resolve. Folding me into her stout arms, she kissed away my tears, stroking my hair, murmuring soothing words as though I were her daughter. “Shush, we’ll think of something. I’ll send for that priest of yours. In the meantime, you shall have a room of your own.” She kissed me on the nose, smiling at this notion. “I’ll get Hal to sort it.”
 

They put me in the little store-room. Between them, the men converted it into a tiny chamber, bringing in a pallet and making it snug. Harry fixed up a shelf for my little horse and promised he’d make another to match it. Afterwards, I avoided Philippa, but if we met on the stairs she shrank away as if I had the plague. How trusting I’d been. I wondered what she might tell Maud. I didn’t want to be the subject of the latest city gossip. The Londoners relished witch hunts, and flocked to executions at Smithfield—suppose someone pointed me out?
 

Chapter Fifteen

Brother Brian arrived in late August but he didn’t come to the bakery. Instead Margaret Mercer sent me to meet him at St John’s.
 

“I think he’d rather speak to you privately.” She gave me a half-hearted smile and squeezed my hand, but she didn’t meet my eyes.

Over-joyed at having the chance to talk to someone who understood me better than anyone else, I shrugged off her odd manner and raced through the streets, heedless of the curious stares and cries for caution.

The small chamber at the Priory of Saint John gleamed mellow in the candle-light. Brother Brian crouched over a desk strewn with scrolls, but his face lit up at my entrance.
 

“Mistress Mercer asked me to talk to you.” He returned my impulsive hug and set aside his writing implements. “And the prior is after loaning us the use of his private chamber for it.”

Smiling encouragement, he indicated a stool by the hearth. A tiny fire danced, shedding its glow upon the shelves of books and papers, illuminating the faded arras on the wall.
 

“Did Mistress Mercer tell you about the dream?”
 

“It caused a bit of an uproar, I’m thinking?” Listening to my version, his eyes clouded. “The reoccurrence of these visions reminds us of the need to discover their meaning. Niall spent much time interpreting dreams—for they were prophecies—and so we must pursue the purpose of yours.” He took my hands in his own, squeezing them gently, and smiled at me. “You’ve surely been chosen for a special task. Between us, we must solve the riddle.”