The Assassin's Wife (2 page)

“The boys are after practising their writing.” A smile curved his mouth. “Sit down.” Plucking a piece of parchment he held it up for my approval. “Master Palmer has talent. He may yet prove a scholar—”

The quiver in his voice signalled me to study his face. A pair of troubled blue eyes met mine and I sensed at once he guarded a secret of his own.
 

“Now tell me what you saw.” His speech lilted, soft and liquid. After years among us he still spoke like an outsider.

I closed my eyes, conjuring again the ring of chanting, spiteful children, inhaling the ferment of pondweed and recoiling from the slap of water against my skin.

“Why did it upset Johanna Nettleship so much?” Sitting beside me, the hairy fabric of his dark robe brushing my arm, he put a cup of wine into my hand. Dutifully, I tried to swallow, but gagged, spewing a stream of bile and pond water across the flagstones instead.

“No matter.” He stooped to wipe away the mess, crouching beside me, his expression serious. “Was it just a bit of pretending, a bit of making up stories to frighten her? Or were you after seeing shadows on a wall?”
 

“I saw Will Nettleship as clear as I see you now!” I clenched my fists, and the church rang hollow with my shouts. “I told you before, I don’t see shadows. I don’t make things up. I see real people like the boys in my dreams who’ll be killed if I don’t find them.” Impotent rage shook me. I fixed him with a fierce, unforgiving glare. “I thought you understood. You said you’d help me. Why won’t people listen? Why don’t you believe me?”

“Child, child, I
do
believe you. You have the Sight,” he answered, his voice so weary, his kindly face so grave, all my hurt and anger ebbed away. For a moment he studied his ink-stained fingers. Then his eyes flicked towards the statue of the Virgin by the little altar beneath the lancet window where a single candle glowed. He crossed himself. “But you must ask Our Lady to shelter you from these dark fancies.”

“Am I a witch then?” I stared at the plaster face and the blue-painted robes, seeing no warmth or comfort in them. Unwelcome, my mother’s face swam into my mind. Her eyes were just as empty.

“No, no.” He touched my arm. “You mustn’t think such things.”

“But I see spirits. My mother says it’s wicked. And her friend, Marion— Mistress Weaver, says—”

The candle spluttered, distracting us.

“What happens to the moth that’s drawn to the candle-flame?” The priest’s eyes focused on the flickering light.
 

“It gets burned.”

“So we must learn to avoid danger.” He looked at me intently.

“Am I to tell lies then?” I jerked as if stung. “I didn’t think priests were supposed to tell lies.”
 

I wanted to hurt him as I’d been hurt, but he answered soft and mellow.

“No lies. But you must guard your tongue. Such talk of spirits frightens people and puts your family in danger. Better to keep silent than invite undue attention.”

“I saw a man in the water.”

“What man?”

“In the pond. He floated up towards me. His eyes were open but his face had swollen. Rags of skin were peeling from it.”

“A drowned man?”

“Oh yes, but not from here. A nobleman. He said he’d been murdered.”

The priest pressed a finger to my lips. “You mustn’t speak of this to anyone. I’ll talk to your mother and put her mind at rest. No need for fretting.”

He took me home under the scrutiny of gossip-hungry villagers on the green, smiling away churlish remarks, rebutting them with cheerful greetings and questions of concern about their families. When we reached the tight fist of houses at its farther edge, the Askew girls stepped from their neighbouring cottage to gawk at me and I clasped his hand tighter.

At our makeshift door my mother waited, holding Tom in her arms. Her eyes accused me, needle-sharp, unkind, but she turned a smiling mouth to Brother Brian and stood aside to welcome him into our home.

“Put this on.”
 

Setting Tom on the floor to play with some little wooden animals my father had carved, she flung a patched shift at me and offered the priest a stool by the hearth.

“I’ll wash your cloak,” she said, brushing away his murmured deprecation. Wrinkling her nose with distaste, she dropped the sack containing my wet shift into a pail. “Take this outside, Nan, and wait until I call you.”

I flashed the priest a glance and caught his smile to comfort me.
 

“John’ll be home soon, Brother Brian. He’s helping Noll Wright to mend a cart. Will you take some ale?”

My mother’s honeyed words brought fresh bile into my mouth. I dropped the ragged leather flap behind me.
 

“That’s her.” Rabbit-toothed Elaine Askew dragged her younger sister to stare at me over their straggling hedge. I pretended interest in a wayward hen which had crept into our garden to forage. “She sends ghosts out in the night.”

“Come away!” Her mother’s voice rose shrill with anger. “I told you not to speak to her.”

“I didn’t speak to her. I only told Mattie what Johanna Nettleship says.”

“I don’t want to hear what Johanna Nettleship says—” Her mother left off feeding squawking chickens to hustle the girls away, glowering at me as if I were to blame for their disobedience.
 

I stuck my tongue out at her retreating back and shooed the startled hen under the hedge to join its outraged sisters, watching them scatter in a clucking flurry of feathers. Glaring a challenge at other impudent watchers, I hurried off to find my father.

“Trouble’s brewing.”

Noll Wright’s voice, gravel dark and deep, drew me to the forge. Half-sprawled on the ground, he and my father struggled to fix a wheel to a cart. Unnoticed, my nose full of the pungent smells of horse and dung, I crept closer.
 

“It might be better to choose someone with his wits about him.” Noll shook his iron-grey head and grabbed a hammer.

“They’re saying in Brafield the Duke of York has his eye on the crown.” My father stood and stretched with a luxurious groan. “That’s it, Noll, as good as new.” He turned. “Here’s Nan to fetch me to my supper.” His voice held smiles, but something in his eyes warned me he’d already heard about Johanna.
 

Noll Wright glanced up with a growl of disapproval as I flung my arms about my father. I pressed my face against the soft, faded leather of his jerkin, breathing in the familiar smells of wood-smoke and grease.
 

“That’s a nasty cut.” He tipped my chin and touched a finger to my bloodied lip. “Suppose you tell me all about it on the way home.”

I gripped his hand and began to whisper my story, shutting out the rest of the world, wallowing in the surety of his love.

“There you are!” My mother snatched me inside, her face a white mask of fury. “Didn’t I tell you to wait until I called you?” She slapped me hard, tears of anger filling her eyes. “I suppose she told you some garbled tale which you believed.” She rounded on my father like a vixen.
 

“I heard some foolish talk—”

“Talk! The whole village’s gossiping about her. Marion says it’s got as far as Brafield. I’m frightened, John. It’s not just old folk stories now. She’s nine—old enough to know what she’s saying. Brother Brian had to bring her home—The shame of it! And she still disobeys me—”

Tom whimpered and I crept into a corner while she picked him up and crooned soft words against his cheek. Rigid-backed, she stooped over the hearth stirring the broth for supper.

We ate in silence.

Later as I lay on my pallet, they argued. For the first time in my life, my father’s voice grew thunderous. I rolled myself into a ball to shut out the noise. It was as if a great curdling storm cloud had finally burst. Long after the house quieted, I lay awake, listening to the steady drum of rain upon the thatch. The foundations of my world began to slip and slide.

The flicker of the flame woke him. It was no more than a hiss, like a drop of moisture on hot metal, but the sound jolted him awake. His lids opened just as a broad hand reached out to extinguish the candle and the chamber plunged into darkness.
 

“There’s someone in the room, Ned.” He pinched the naked flesh beside him. “Are you awake?”

Whispers.

He strained to catch the words, clutched at the prone body beside his, desperate for a protest of complaint, but too afraid to throw back the coverlet or challenge the shadows. He ached for a cherished voice, for a gentle hand on his brow, for the laughter and the pageantry that had once been his. But the isolation and intrigue of this long confinement was blotting out those memories of homage and acclaim.

He held his breath, listened to the waiting silence—heard only the thud of his own heart, a quickening pulse that terrified. The other boy lay warm and still, wrapped in poppy-fed dreams beyond his reach. The doctor had used compassion.
 

“Who’s there?” he dared the watchers. “Is that you, Will?”

The awful press of darkness stifled his voice. Something gathered close, leaned over, hesitated. He caught the breath across his face, smelled the sharp, mingled odours of sweat and fear.
 

Before the heavy hand seized his shoulder, he rolled away and hunched himself into a tight ball, burrowing down the bed like a hedge-hog. His nails scraped the great, carved corner-post as he twisted himself out and underneath the brocade hangings.
 

“Blood of Christ!”

The harsh, masculine voice rent the darkness, turned it into a scuffling frenzy. Fists pummelled and probed the mound of blankets. Naked and shivering, he crouched, immobile as a hare in the flare of torches.
 

“I didn’t wake him, Jack, I swear to it.”

Something familiar in the flat, northern speech alarmed the child.

“Then make sure of the other one before you rouse the whole stinking place,” commanded the first, “and let’s put an end to this filthy business.”

The shadows shifted. A panicked flailing of limbs above his head set his heart racing, and he bit his knuckles to trap a cry. He held his breath while the fury of Ned’s struggles continued. How long before this terrible kicking would stop? Behind his screwed up eyelids, images of pain forced him to cry out. “Please don’t hurt me!”

Stillness.

He felt the weight lift from the mattress, heard the men mutter together. His shallow breathing still sounded thunderous in his ears.
 

“Get the other one, you clumsy oaf. He must be somewhere under the bed. Cut his throat if necessary. There’s no time for nicety now. We’ll have no other chance after tonight.”

This instruction wiped out all reason. What followed was a nightmare of snatching, bruising hands, until, caught by an ankle, he was dragged, flung back brutally amongst the tumbled blankets.

“Got him?”

“Aye, but—”

He clung to the hesitation in the strangled northern voice.

“Then what are you waiting for?— Do it! Do it!”

A taper flared. Even as the fist pressed against his mouth shutting off his wail of recognition, he fought the dark, pushed and heaved and choked—

“Holy Virgin, pray for me. Holy Virgin, help me.” I squeezed my eyes tight shut, trying to shut out the boy’s face. I refused to listen to his pleas. Instead I buried my face in my threadbare blanket, pressing the fabric over my mouth to stop from screaming—all sweat and gooseflesh at the same time.

But the Virgin remained aloof. She didn’t answer my prayers. The boy in the tower chamber stalked my sleep relentlessly. Brother Brian had cheated me. Hadn’t he promised Our Lady would take away the nightmares? How much longer could I pretend?

Chapter Two

The following morning while my mother strained over the wash-tub, I amused Tom with blowing soapy bubbles. Stretching fat hands to catch them, he shrieked and crowed as they danced and spun in rainbow colours under the hazy sunlight to burst in foamy splatters.

“Look! Rainbow fairies!”

My mother gave me a sharp look. “Don’t fill his head with nonsense.” Glancing upward she grimaced at the greying sky. “Help me hang these out.”

In spite of the previous day’s events, I escaped as soon as I could and ran off towards the woods.
 

Giggling voices lured me to the pond where Alys and Robin were skittering after dragonflies. A swoop of jewelled wings skimmed the water, arcing and diving in a sudden spear of sunlight.

“Nan!” Alys ran to greet me, her pretty face alight with happiness. “The others are playing war.” She flicked a backward glance at the ancient trees which hemmed our village. “Did your mother scold you?”