The Assassin's Wife (3 page)

I shrugged and squatted at the edge, trailing my fingers through the water to send the sticklebacks darting. Alys settled beside me, her shoulder touching mine.
 

“Can you really see spirits, Nan?” Robin asked carelessly. He scrambled into the willow’s drooping limbs and swayed precariously.

“My mother says only witches can see into the future.” Alys’s eyes shone huge and fearful.

“Sometimes I just know things,” I answered, watching her face. “I see pictures in my head. I know you’ll marry a rich man. I see his hands pouring gold coins into your lap.”

“What about me?” Laughing, Robin dropped from the tree to land beside us in a whip-lash shower of dust and foliage. “Alys promised to marry me. Shall I be rich then?”

“No, you’ll be a soldier.” The words tumbled out unbidden. “Alys won’t marry you.”

A shadow crossed his boyish face and for an instant I saw him grow indistinct as if lost in fog, but then the youngest Miller boy came hurtling towards us, his face scarlet, his hair spiked with sweat.

“Quick! Quick! Soldiers have come to the village!”

Without stopping he threw himself into the woodland and we heard him crashing through the bracken. We’d barely gained our feet when an unruly crowd of children bore down on us and swept us up in their excitement. We raced towards the village.

Sure enough, soldiers swaggered on the green—rough-looking men with bristly chins and ragged jerkins. Some of them held pikes. A burly fellow with curiously tufted, mud-coloured hair, bellowed like a bull.

“That traitor, the Duke of York, has rallied his northern troops and is marching towards London. Who’ll join the king’s army and help destroy this rabble?”

No one spoke. Shifty glances passed among the men-folk. Feet shuffled.

“Will no one fight for King Henry? Will you let these vile northerners slaughter your wives and children?” The leader’s eyes raked the listeners, searching out the younger men. “The Duke of Buckingham will pay sixpence a day to any lad brave enough to fight—and food and armour besides.”

Shaking off female hands, gangling youths edged forward until a muttering crowd encircled the soldiers.

“Let’s show these traitors some southern spirit!” The clever leader urged the jeers while we crept closer, fascinated by the dented armour and the heavy swords.
 

As it turned out, the Lancastrian army recruited several of our youths. While their sweethearts wept, dry-eyed matrons watched their departure with grim resignation.

“They won’t come back,” I said.

Everyone swivelled toward me, but in that instant cruel fingers twisted my ear and dragged me from amongst my fellows. “There you are! Haven’t I been looking everywhere for you? What do you mean by running off?” My mother’s sharp white face thrust down at me. Her lips spat venom. “Have you no shame?”

Stumbling home under the fierce pressure of her grip, while men hawked phlegm and matrons brayed their disapproval, I fell, scraping my knees. Before I could rise, she’d hauled me up and shoved me through our doorway.

“How can you say such wicked things? Do you want to see us hanged?”
 

The blows rained down. Her eyes burned.

It caused uproar in the village. It marked the increase of my folly.

* * * * *

That afternoon brought the priest scurrying to our door clutching a mysterious, black cloth bag and a string of ebony beads. My father rose and fiddled with his belt clasp while my mother pushed me forward.

“Marion’s looking after Tom,” she told Brother Brian. Licking her lips nervously, she smoothed the grey folds of her old, worsted gown. “We didn’t know what else to do.”

“I’m in your hands.” The priest smiled indulgently but I sensed his embarrassment.
 

“She says such things—Tell Brother Brian all that nonsense you’ve been filling Robin Arrowsmith’s head with—that stuff about knights and heads being cut off and boys being murdered in their beds. Mistress Askew said it frightened Elaine to death—”

“It’s just a game,” I answered. I goaded her with a stubborn stare. “The boys are always playing war.” I relished the fact that my defiance annoyed her and wondered if she’d show the priest her temper.
 

“It’s nothing serious, Brother Brian.” My father spluttered excuses, twisting at his iron buckle. An awkward grin scarred his mouth. “Giles Arrowsmith was laughing about it earlier. What do you expect when children hear us gossiping about the barons and their squabbles? It’s always been the same. When we were lads we played such games ourselves—”

“Well I don’t think it’s a laughing matter when girls make up such horrors.” My mother cut him off in exasperated tones, her eyes flashing menace. “And you see how impertinent Nan’s grown—” She fixed the priest with a helpless, pleading expression. Its falsehood riled me. “You must cure her, Brother Brian, before she brings more trouble on us. This talk of spirits frightens everyone.”

My father laid me on the trestle, nodding and smiling and pressing a calloused finger to his lips. My heart began to pound. Frowning, I watched the priest kneel to light a candle. He opened his book and placed something at my feet. I wanted to look, but my father shook his head. Though his eyes still smiled, he couldn’t halt the uncomfortable twitching of his hands and feet, the restless tapping of his tongue against his teeth.
 

The priest stood at the end of the trestle facing towards me. His lips formed silent words. A censer hung from his hand. He crossed himself. Then the rich melodious swell of his voice filled the chamber.
 

“In odorem suavitatis. Tu autem effugare, diabole; appropinquabit enim judicium Dei—”

The meaningless murmur was the summer-warm drone of bees. Was I sick that the priest should pray over me? In the shadows his eyes glowed like soft pieces of blue sky. A wisp of white smoke trailed from his fingers scattering fragrance. Its spicy smell conjured the memory of Mass, an echo of chanted prayers and sweet singing—sounds that flew like birds up to the high church rafters so that God and Jesus and the Holy Virgin might hear them. But why? What did it all mean?
 

Brother Brian dabbed my head, my ears, my nose with a gentle hand, although the strange words beat at me as if demanding answers. But it was my father, whom I loved best of anyone in the world, who repeated the words and said the amens. Once he even called my name. I longed for him to hug me, but he stood distant and clouded, his face fear-frozen and sad. Lines cut deep furrows in his brown skin. By his side my mother pressed her hands over her swollen belly to protect the unborn babe, fright leaping in her hooded eyes. It made me think of the wicked, dancing imps carved above the choir stalls. But there was something else. Anger pulsed about her in choppy waves. What had I done now to make her call the priest?
 

Dipping his thumb in oil, he traced a cross on my head and shoulders. He called to Jesus and though his face grew grave, his eyes remained kind.

“Exorcizo te, omnis spiritus immunde, in nomine Dei Patris omnipotentis, et nomine Jesu Christi Filii ejus, Domine et Judicis nostri, et in virtute Spiritus Sancti, ut –”

“How will we know?” My father interrupted the spell.

I burned under their fierce scrutiny.

I wanted to ask questions but the priest touched my lips so softly I knew I must keep silent.

“I’m thinking we’d have had some sign by now.” He awarded my mother a radiant smile and picking up a flask, scattered some drops of holy water. I felt the waiting like the terrible pause before a thunder-clap, but there was nothing. The priest exhaled a jubilant sigh. “I find no evil in this child.”
 

Afterward he lingered to talk and take a cup of ale while my mother dispatched me to collect Tom. In spite of a thin drizzle, I dawdled along the pathway to the Weavers’ cottage, scuffing the dust and pebbles with my toes and puzzling over the strange ritual. In the fields men were penning animals and rounding up stray offspring. The last pennants of sunlight streamed across a smoke-grey sky, and a warm smell of pottage flavoured the breeze.

“It’s Nan, Ma—come for Tom.”
 

Fat Marion, a sleepy Tom blinking in her arms, nudged a bevy of pudding-faced sons aside with her bulk, and peered out at me.
 

“Brother Brian’s gone, has he?”

“He’s just taking a cup of ale.” I studied the doughy rolls of flesh at her chin and neck, the way she chewed at her pink, fat bottom lip like a cow ruminating.
 

“Can you carry him?” She knitted her brows. “Don’t drop him, mind. And tell your mother he’s been fed.”

I nodded, pressing Tom’s soft, round cheek against mine, and my lips to his feathery dark curls.
 

She laced her arms under pendulous breasts. Splay-footed, she watched from her doorway as I walked away into the long shadows.

By the churchyard I encountered Simon Dobbs and his rabble of ragged
henchmen.
 

“Well here’s the witch,” he said. He leaned impudently against a grave stone. “Brother Brian’s little liar.” He smirked at his skulking companions. “Don’t look at her lads. They say a witch can lay a curse with just one glance.”

“What do you want?” Though wary of their menacing laughter and the way they barred my path, I spoke out boldly and hugged Tom closer like an amulet.

“Ooh! Did she threaten us?” Simon’s man-boy’s voice cracked. Under his freckles the skin burned red as fire. “Brother Brian likes these odd ones. Alan Palmer’s quite a favourite too.” He thrust his ugly, bony face into mine. “Can’t you weave a spell to bring him here to us, witch? We could show him something.”

I stayed quite still while the pack of them raced round me chanting, leering, showering me with insults, until at last, Simon sped across the graveyard towards the dark woodlands beyond the village boundary, whooping like a huntsman with the others at his heels.

Hoisting Tom’s weight up a little on my hip, I expelled a long breath. Around me a spatter of stars began to dot the sky and from the fields a faint smell of burning wood drifted on the wind. Unbidden, the memory of the painted demons in the chapel rose up to haunt me and I wondered why, in little more than a day, I’d become such an outsider. A heavy sense of foreboding pressed upon me like a gathering storm.

Chapter Three

Sent to collect kindling early next morning, I wandered in the woods as long as I dared, breathing in the mingled scents of blossom, crawling vetch, leaf mould and spotted fungus as I gathered sticks. I loved the silence of the trees and the sense of freedom the green shadows afforded, but when my bundle grew large and the skies heavy with rain, I knew I must either return home or seek some other shelter.
 

Beyond the fringe of Herne Woods and far from the pasture encircling the clustered dwellings of our village, stood the lone cottage belonging to Widow Evans. I’d glimpsed her once or twice at the market in Brafield, but mostly she kept to herself, and when people spoke of her they whispered behind their hands and looked sly. Several times I’d overheard Fat Marion tell my mother Mistress Evans was a witch and girls went to her for love potions or ways to rid themselves of babes they didn’t want.

Now, hesitating a few yards from her cottage, brushing burrs and dust from my skirt, I wondered if I dare ask the widow’s help. If she was a wise-woman, as the priest said, then surely she would understand the Sight? Perhaps she could explain why spirits came to me and what my dreams meant?

Save for a few scrawny hens pecking among the weeds, the Evans’ place seemed deserted. Even the birds grew hushed.
Better go home
, I thought, until some instinct told me I was being watched. Turning, I glimpsed a thin, dark girl in a blood-red kirtle standing quite still, just off the path. She held a willow-wand in her hand.
 

A crow flying suddenly out of the thatch startled both of us. The girl made a noise and gestured at me with her wand. I understood then I should enter the house. Already the door stood ajar.

As I approached, a woman’s voice called out. Her strange words alarmed me. Torn between the desire to run and the uncomfortable sensation of the girl close behind, I clutched my sticks to my breast and stepped inside.

A small, dark woman stood kneading bread. She spoke again in a foreign tongue full of musical cadences and laughed at my confusion.

“Come in, girl,” she said in English. “Close the door behind you.”

I set down my bundle, and with some reluctance shut out the sunlight.

When I was able to see my hostess clearly, I realised she was no ancient wise-woman with a crooked back and blackened teeth as I’d imagined. A woman of middle years whose figure still stood straight and trim, stared back at me. No ragged locks or whiskery chin marred her features.

“Disappointed?”

Had she read my thoughts?

She laughed again but without malice. “Well, what can I do for you?” She wiped dusty hands on her apron. “Did someone send you for a herbal posset or a healing draught?”