The Assassin's Wife (32 page)

“This is the end of an era. King Henry remains a poor prisoner in the Tower. I doubt we shall hear much of him again.” He crossed himself in an exaggerated pious fashion, his pale, fishy eyes melancholy. “This house has always favoured York’s claim to the crown, as you know, and the king’s brother is a close friend of Sir Robert. But I’m grieved to hear of the wicked deeds perpetrated in his name. Let us pray there’ll be no more bloodshed.”

During an embarrassed, uncomfortable silence, Margaret Mercer flashed me an odd, satisfied look. “Your prophecies concerning two battles in two months have come true, Nan,” she said, when the steward quit the kitchen and the astonished murmurs began. “I’ve no idea where Tewkesbury is, and I doubt any of these,” she indicated the whispering servants, “care much who wears the crown, but I’m certain we’ll see some drastic changes when the Wydevilles take charge again.”

I didn’t answer. An image of the frail Lancastrian king kneeling by a little altar in a turret chamber burst into my inner vision like a shooting star. His up-turned face gleamed white and ethereal in the flickering light of a single candle, while over him loomed a monstrous shadow, black as a raven’s wing. A wave of nausea set me sweating. Around me voices echoed hollow as bells while figures blurred and span—
 

“Nan?”

Someone brought a stool. A wet cloth pressed against my brow, and a hand pushed a cup to my lips.
 

“The heat—”
 

Kindly Dorothy steered me away.

* * * * *

“My Ralph says the queen used evil spells to have him murdered.” Kate’s voice on the stairs startled me from sleep.

“Do you feel better, Nan?” Dorothy’s rush-light drove the dusty shadows away, while the others spilled, chattering, into the chamber.

“I don’t believe such silly stuff.” Cecily flounced onto her bed, loosening her red curls from her cap. “How can the queen be a witch?”

“She learned from her mother,” Jennet said. “The Duchess of Bedford’s French—”
 

“But that doesn’t make her a witch,” said Rosamund. “The French—”

“Are perfidious, evil-minded villains.” Jennet’s spiteful tones finished for her. “Everyone knows the stories of that French witch who called on demons and rode into battle dressed as a man.”

My flesh crawled at the memory of Simon Dobbs stabbing his finger and laughingly designating me to play this role in one of our old war games.

“Do you think it’s possible?” Kate interrupted the brewing quarrel. “I mean, I know there are wise women who can read the future and make potions to cure ailments, but can they really cast spells to make people do terrible things?”

“Why not?” Fat Rosamund’s face quivered with horrified pleasure. “My mother knew a woman who could make any man fall in love with her.”

“A pity you didn’t learn how to do that!” Jennet’s sneering laughter whipped a hot bloom into Rosamund’s plump cheeks.

“Oh I’m sure there are some who can look into the future.” I spoke softly. “I knew an old woman who possessed the Sight and she taught me to use her special cards—”

Four pairs of eyes fixed on me.
 

“Would you like to see them?” In a moment of pure recklessness I slid the bundle from my pack of belongings and offered to tell their fortunes. It wasn’t the time to be boasting of such matters but I wanted to see if I still had the skill. Besides, Mara had been on my mind ever since I’d heard about Tewkesbury. Now her wry smile and the wise twinkle of her black eyes teased me, as if she urged me to this daring act.

“How can you know that?” Cecily’s amazement at my vivid description of her grandmother’s house clearly impressed. “You’ve never been there, and she’s been dead fifteen years.”

“Tell me if I’ll marry,” begged fat Rosamund, snatching the cards. The others sniggered and made cruel faces behind her back.
 

Even shy Dorothy demanded to know her fate.

“How did you learn such tricks?” Sallow-faced Jennet examined the curious images with a suspicious frown.

I shook my head. “No trickery.”
 

“Witch-craft’s a hanging offence.”

“It’s just a game,” said Kate carelessly, but Jennet’s vindictive glare put me in mind of Johanna Nettleship and the ducking she’d given me in the village pond.
 

“I told you, an old woman gave them to me. She taught me their meanings.”
 

“You didn’t tell Anne’s fortune.” Cecily indicated a thin, quiet girl on the corner bed. Green eyes brilliant in the rush-light, she huddled against the wall as if ready to ward off a blow. She’d only recently joined our company and so far no one had heard her say a word.

“I’m sure she’s not right in the head.” Kate whispered in my ear as we turned to face the newcomer.
 

“She’s in shock,” I replied without thinking. “Mistress Mercer told me she lost her father recently and one of her relations begged Sir Robert to take her in.”

“She has very fine hands.” Dorothy’s words turned our attention to the refined quality of the girl’s appearance in spite of her coarse clothes.
 

“Would you like me to read your fortune?”
 

She stared at me with such anguish, a lump of pain formed in my throat.

“You have to shuffle and make a wish.” Rosamund thrust the cards at her with an air of superior knowledge.

She took them as one might a dish hot from the oven, staring at them for a long time.

“Go on, shuffle them,” Rosamund said.

With mounting apprehension, I laid out the familiar pattern.
 

“Well?” Kate asked impatiently. “What wondrous future lies in store for Mistress Anne?”

“Too much noise up there!” We jumped apart. “Who’s wasting light?”

“Master Rowland!” Cecily leaped into the bed she shared with Dorothy. “Put out the light, for God’s sake or he’ll be up here!” She pulled the coverlet over her head and someone speedily extinguished the light. Kate muttered a curse on all troublesome stewards. Amidst a general scrambling into sleeping places, a shuffling and arranging of bed-linen, I found myself abandoned trying to retrieve the dropped cards.
 

“What did you see?” The fierce whisper shocked me. Icy fingers seized my wrist.

“A crown,” I answered, amazed by the strength of those delicate hands.

She uttered a hard laugh that made my scalp prickle.

“What’s that?”
 

“Ssssh! Go to sleep. You’ll have old yellow-breeches up here.”

In the anonymous dark the girls shrugged down into their mattresses with a shift of limbs, a flap of coverlets, a sigh and settling of breath.

“Lady,” I said to my companion in an undertone, “you have many secrets. You’re not what you seem.”

In the glitter of her eyes, slanted and green as a cat’s, shone an astonishing rage. I knew instantly some terrible injustice had put it there. Clearly there was more to this strange girl than the shock and fear I’d first noticed.

“If you two don’t stop whispering, old Rowland will punish all of us.” Jennet’s peevish tone hissed a warning.

“Your destiny lies in the north lands, lady, for in the south there’s danger. And in spite of all, the crown will be yours.”

Jennet snapped another caution and I slunk to my bed. Fat Rosamund already snored and grumbled. But long after the others slept, I lay shivering beneath the coverlet.
 

You’ll take me with you, lady
, I thought. Your destiny and mine are intertwined, but why do I have such awful premonitions concerning the outcome?

Chapter Forty

When Master Rowland assigned our morning tasks, a sour expression distorted Jennet’s features. “Why can’t Anne go to the fishmonger’s?”
 

“If she went with you to fetch the fish,” said fat Rosamund, “I could go with Nan to the market.” Her moon-shaped face beamed in pretended innocence

Jennet rewarded Rosamund with one of her particularly spiteful glares. “You could take Anne to the fishmonger’s just as well as me. Then
I
could go to the market. Why should I always have to go for the fish?”

“Because you’re so much better at dealing with slippery things.” Rosamund’s sweetly spat venom made us gasp.

“My dear young ladies!” Master Rowland pressed his index finger against the corner of his mouth as if perplexed, although he knew perfectly well none of us relished the stink of Billingsgate’s fish market. “I’m amazed at these displays of ill-temper.” With a martyred sigh, he explained our duties again as if addressing simpletons. “Dorothy has tooth-ache and Mistress Anne will go nowhere.” He glared at a truculent Jennet. “Her family requested she remain in the house until stronger.”

His fishy-pale eyes followed us as Jennet flung on a shawl, and Rosamund lumbered off to collect her basket.

“Who is this Anne?” Jennet asked. “Why should she merit special treatment? Anyone would think she was royalty the way Master Rowland talks.”

We spilled into the street.
 

“Mistress Mercer said her father died recently. Perhaps he was killed in the fighting at Tewkesbury,” said Cecily.
 

The appearance of the carpenter’s apprentice, a handsome lad with an abundance of auburn curls and a winning smile, quickly diverted our attention.
 

“Good morning to you, ladies,” he called out jauntily. His eyes appraised Rosamund’s voluptuous curves with amusement.

She simpered coyly, plump cheeks wobbling, and while he and Jennet fell into the sparring conversation of young men and women who find one another interesting, she stood gazing with calf-like eyes. Cheerful Cecily scampered off towards Smithfield and I headed to the Chepe.

A strange quiver of unease passed through me as soon as I entered the market. I lingered amongst the press of matrons by a pie stall, aware of a dark-clad figure lurking at the edge of my vision. Heart thumping, I turned carefully and caught the stranger melting into the milling crowds. Feeling foolish, I moved among the stalls pausing to make purchases and exchange pleasantries with familiar traders. Eventually, however, I realised the hooded stripling followed my every step. He paced with stealth and purpose, steadily closing the gap between us. My heart quickened its beat. I tried to keep my gait unhurried whilst pretending interest in the stalls, but my mind teemed with thoughts of escape.

Unease finally gave way to panic. I almost fell as I slipped into the narrow darkness of Cutter’s Lane. Sunlight rarely penetrated this passageway and the cobbles lay slick with slime. Turning sharply, my basket struck against the corner with such force several objects leapt out and rolled away.

I daren’t stoop to search, the lane being infamous as the haunt of petty thieves and drabs who brought customers to conduct their business amongst the shadows. Before my eyes could adjust, I flung myself headlong down the twisting alley, desperate to shake off my pursuer.

Recklessness proved my undoing. I bumped into a group of crouching figures sharing the objects of their recent pilfering, lost my balance, and tumbled, sprawling in the dirt. I managed to retrieve my basket but as I staggered to my feet a greasy hand encircled my ankle. Instinctively, I kicked out. My cursing assailant loosed his grip, but wrenched at my skirt to maintain a hold. With an alarming ripping sound, I fled amid a roar of ribald laughter. Voices slurred with ale called lewd remarks.

“Stop that woman!” A refined, youthful voice rang with authority.

“Has the wench cheated you, sir?” Another voice cackled with mirth. “She’s a lively one. Sim can vouch for that, can’t you, lad?”
 

Attacked from behind by another pair of exploring hands, I elbowed and wrestled using basket and contents as weapons. Picking eggs from my basket, I ground them into a face, aiming for the eyes. From the furious yelping, I guessed they’d found their mark.
 

There followed a mad scramble amongst lurching shapes and angry, screeching noises. I registered vividly the shocked face of a girl entwined with a wrinkled goat of a man against a wall.
 

By some miracle, I finally escaped into daylight at the end of this evil-smelling tunnel. Filthy and dishevelled, my kirtle torn and my bodice spattered with egg and grease, I hurled myself among the crowds. From the look of disdain a stout tradesman’s wife gave me, I guessed she mistook me for a whore. Clutching my empty basket like a talisman I raced back to Dowgate.
 

Just outside the house a jangle of raised voices caught my attention, and once in the kitchen I encountered a scene of utter confusion.

“My purse has been stolen!” I fumbled in my sleeve, conscious of my soiled gown with its torn skirt. “I was attacked—”

“She’s gone!” Kate shouted above the roar of voices, jumping up and down with excitement. “Oh there’s been such a to-do! You should’ve seen. And you’ll never guess who she was!”