The Assassin's Wife (35 page)

Never had the sight of a tavern been so welcome.

Dismounting, Miles handed his horse’s reins to John in order to assist me.
 

As I slid from the saddle I felt the gush of wetness between my thighs. With a sense of dread I leaned against Miles for support. He slipped his arms about me.

“Art thou weary, lass? We’ll have you warm and snug in no time.” His cheeriness threatened to reduce me to tears. Averting my face, I pressed my lips together.
 

Once inside the inn, however, I alerted him to my situation. The frown between his black brows deepened. A flash of sudden fear glinted in his eyes.

“Find the landlady or some serving woman who can help me.” I whispered to him, unwilling to arouse the attention of the others drinking ale by a roaring fire and shouting for food.

After a brief exchange, the bald-pated landlord called a stout woman from the kitchen.

“Come with me, hinny,” said this ruddy-faced wench in grey woollen gown and coarse linen apron. I followed her gratefully. “We’ll have to go upstairs. Can tha’ manage?”

Clasping my hands across my belly, I plodded after her broad back, up the twisted, narrow stairs into a small, bright bed-chamber.

“Is it thi first?”

Another nod, and a gasp of pain.

She took my cloak and gently helped me remove my gown sodden with rain and blood. A wave of nausea set me staggering and I grasped the bed-post to steady myself.
 

“Thou must lie down, hinny. Best take off thi shift. I’ll fetch some water so thou canst cleanse theesen.”

Trembling, I stripped off my shift, and using it to prevent soiling the bedding, crawled under the blankets shivering like a wounded animal.

Her hands were capable and kind. She spoke of practical matters as I surrendered to the pain, and consoled me when the ordeal came to a bitter end.
 

So I lost my baby in the landlord’s bed-chamber at the The Greyhound. The emptiness of such grief remains indescribable.

“We’ll make another child.” Miles enfolded me into the warmth of his embrace. I couldn’t speak. Even the benison of tears eluded me. The landlord’s wife hadn’t offered me such easy comfort.

Chapter Forty-Three

Barnard Castle

Barnard Castle perched like an eagle on a high bank across the River Tees. In the rain-washed light of a February morning, it appeared to me both terrible and imposing. With a heavy heart, I entered its portals.
 

The responsibility of his new post hung heavy on Miles. He promptly handed me over into the care of Mistress Moore, a woman of generous curves, a florid complexion, and abundant brown hair.
 

“I’ve been in service at Barnard since I were fifteen,” she said warmly. She guided me through a warren of corridors and steep steps. “You’ll find us one big family here.” She paused to exchange pleasantries with a pair of hefty wenches. “This is Mistress Forrest.” They nodded an enthusiastic greeting making no secret of their curiosity. “I’m telling her we’re a friendly lot up here and she’ll soon adapt to our ways.” Stopping outside a stout door, she gave me an appraising look. “Ee, but you’re not what I expected.”

I smiled wanly. “What did you expect?”
 

“Well, you’re a bonny lass but there’s not much of you. You’re a dainty, little thing. I expected summat a bit more substantial.” She smiled broadly, giving me a nudge as if to share a jest as she pushed open the door. “The men round here tend to favour buxom wenches— Ee, lass, forgive me, I’m an old fool. You must be fair spent. I’ll have Lizzie bring you something to eat. No need bothering to come down to the Hall. There’s a fine fire lit here already.”

Lizzie, a slatternly wench with a voluptuous bosom, brought me some kind of pottage. But exhaustion overwhelmed me. I’d no time to appreciate the comforts of the chamber. Instead I nodded off before the fire.

In my dream I climbed an endless winding staircase. Dark shapes danced upon walls and moisture oozed from the stones. Closed doors mocked me with secrets.

Presently I heard a child singing. The clear, boyish treble soared and swooped and I stopped to listen to the melody. The words spoke of lost love and betrayal, the cadences rising and falling with such yearning, tears pricked my eyes.

When a door swung open of its own accord, I dropped my taper and darkness rushed at me like a slavering beast. I tried to scream but no noise came. Instead, a hand fell heavy across my mouth. I kicked out, flailing clenched fists—

“Ssh!” A voice called out of the darkness. “I’m here.”

Sweating, panting, tears wet on my cheeks, I struck at something solid and woke suddenly.
 

Daylight filtered through heavy drapes. Beside the bed Miles nursed his cheekbone with mock injury. “I think you’ve had a nightmare,” he said. “At least I hope so for I’ve done nothing to merit such violent treatment.”

“It was horrible.” The appalling images loomed so vivid in my mind I couldn’t dismiss them. “I can’t think what such a dream might mean.”

“Must dreams mean something?” Miles leaned close. The blue of his eyes seemed to smoulder. He smoothed some wisps of hair from my forehead, his fingers lingering on the strands. “Or may they be just a muddle of nonsense from our daily lives?”

“Sometimes they’re important.” I clasped his hand, finding comfort in the solidity of his presence.

“You’re a strange lass.” He kissed my fingertips. “There’s some witchcraft in you. You’ve a way of saying things that startle, as if you know more than you tell.”
 

“It’s not the first time I’ve been called a witch.”
 

“You’ve bewitched me.”

The statement was made without jest and my heart skipped a beat. I stared into the enigmatic eyes as if to read a reason for this unexpected remark but their expression remained unfathomable.

“I can’t think how.”

“I knew I must have you from the first moment I saw you. And as for dreams—Why, yes, I dreamt of you before we met. But I’ve told you that already. And you say you dreamt of me.”

“I didn’t know you believed in such things,” I said, holding his gaze.
 

“I’ve good reason to believe in them. Our fates are intertwined, lass. I knew it in my bones the day I saw you at that house in Silver Street. Maybe I’m not such a churl as you think.”

“I never thought you that.”

Miles wrapped an arm around me, kissed me on the brow. “And I never thought to take you for a wife. I’ll not deny I wanted you in my bed. And I’d never met a lass so eager for bed-sport. When we first came to Middleham I thought myself a lucky knave and heard others envy me my prize! But what began as sport has grown more serious.” He looked deep into my eyes so I might see his confusion. “What spell have you used? How did you invade my dreams to make me yearn for you so desperately?”
 

“No spell. Miles.” I returned his kiss, moved by his tender regard. “If I’d such skills I’d have snared you earlier!” I leaned into the comfort of his embrace. “You’ve always played an important part in my dreaming. Since childhood the same dream’s plagued me over and over. I knew I must find you to prevent a great wrong—”

“Not now, lass.” His voice soothed, gentle as a caress. “Be easy and rest. Time enough to talk of such things when you’re recovered—” He rocked me in his arms. “I’m truly sorry about the babe. I told Agnes Moore you’d had a hard time. You’ll find her understanding of such matters. In a while, when spring comes, you’ll see Barnard at its best. Then you’ll feel you’re not among strangers anymore.”

“The people here seem friendly enough,” I answered drowsily. “Was it you put me to bed?” I noticed my stained gown cast carelessly upon a wooden coffer.

“I did. And you were so exhausted I had a hard time undressing you!” His eyes twinkled with mischief. Swinging down from the bed, he gathered up his cloak. “I must ride over to Staindrop now, but Agnes promised to send some wench to wait on you. I dare say you’ll find her a better maidservant than me.” He chucked me under the chin. “The duke’s honoured me with this appointment and I mustn’t fail him. I’ll be back before nightfall and we’ll go down to supper together in the Hall. How will that suit you?”

When he’d gone, I crept out of bed and drew back the drapes. Glancing down into a windswept courtyard, I spied a gardener lopping dead branches from a tree. Leaning on the sill, I watched a pair of crows swoop back and forth over his head, evidently much displeased by his handiwork. Finally, unable to resist any longer, I explored all the rooms in my new apartment, admiring the ornately carved oak furniture, the fine tapestries, the silken hangings patterned with blue and gold fleur de lis. My garments, scattered with sprigs of lavender, lay folded neatly in a heavy, polished chest in the bedchamber and my little jewel casket, wooden trinket box, brush, comb and pins sat together upon a shelf above. Miles wouldn’t have arranged things so carefully. Whoever put them away must have moved as silently as a cat while I dozed before the fire.

Finding a ewer of water and a bowl, I shed my ruined shift and washed swiftly. Dressed in clean clothes and standing before a fine looking-glass, I brushed my tangled hair, combing it loosely about my face in the way Miles loved so well. Then I opened the trinket box and took out my precious cloth-wrapped bundle tied with green ribbon. Kneeling before a vast stone hearth decorated with leaping stags, I laid out the pattern of Mara’s wondrous picture cards just as a plump little wench with bright auburn hair opened the door.

“Who are you?” I scooped up the cards with shaking hands, my heart racing.

“Amy Sadler, Mistress Forrest. I’ve been appointed to wait on you.” Her face burned scarlet with embarrassment. Her interlaced fingers twisted nervously. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
 

“Was it you who put my garments in the chest?” I fumbled the cloth about the cards, hardly daring to meet her eyes.

“I didn’t like to wake you.” Her breathy voice sounded hesitant, apologetic. Curiosity burning in her eyes, she watched me tie the ribbon. “Is it a new game, Mistress Forrest?”

“Yes,” I lied, averting my face, remembering how Harry told me once what a poor dissembler I made. “Just a game. But I didn’t expect—you made me jump.”

“I’m sorry—”

“No matter. I flung the bundle in the press. “Thank you, Amy, for being so considerate. You’ve done well.”

She smiled shyly. Under the fading blush a smattering of freckles painted her nose and cheeks. Tawny eyes shone with flecks of gold. “Aunt Agnes—I mean, Mistress Moore, said I should see if you needed anything.”
 

Amy Sadler proved an energetic little wench. Like a sparrow she flitted about her tasks and entertained me with local gossip. She ran errands for everyone and her bright chatter spread sunshine about the castle. As Miles had promised, the close-knit clan of Barnard’s womenfolk quickly drew me into their circle.
 

* * * * *

“Ee, th’art a miracle of knowledge, Nan,” said Agnes. She and the other women rifled through my herbal remedies. “And this infusion will cure the headache?”

“Or you could try some thyme vinegar.”

“Ee, what a canny lass! My grandmother swore a sprig of thyme under a child’s pillow would drive away nightmares.”

Lucy sniffed at one of the lotions. “What’s in this?”

“Lovage. It’s good for removing blemishes and spots.”

“Try some, Amy,” said Lucy with a giggle. She pointed to the angry red pustule on the girl’s chin. “Let’s see if it works.” She smeared a daub upon it while the maid blushed to the roots of her hair and the other women laughed.

“Well, my mother always said there’s a herb to cure everything—”

“Aye, but there’s others to kill an’ all—”

“If you’ve some poison for a lazy lump of a rogue—”

So the banter continued, but I didn’t mention Mara.

* * * * *

Miles proved right about Barnard. In spring the meadows bloomed bright with flowers. The rolling heather-scattered valleys lay fragrant and warm. How I loved the times we wandered on the heath, when he caught me in his arms and carried me easily upon his shoulder like a child, or chased me under the trees until we fell into a tickling embrace. Entwined among the long grass we shared kisses and secrets, while jubilant birds filled the branches with song and bees hummed drowsy lullabies. I relished this taste of purest happiness.

“There’s a fine colour in your cheeks, hinny,” said Agnes Moore. “And there’s a sparkle in your eye! I’ll wager that man of yours has been showing you the delights of the countryside hereabouts!”

Her teasing always brought the blushes to my cheeks.

One sun-drenched day in April, Miles took me walking amongst the most dramatic landscape I’d ever seen. Scrambling over fells and cliffs, through gorse-clad rocks and across ancient boulders, we climbed high into the hills until the distant splash of water became a nearby roar. Taking my hand, he lifted me over a stile to view the hurtling cascade that fell like shattering crystals on to the rocks far below. In the brilliant sunlight, every droplet became a jewel, so I might have been watching a miser scatter his precious hoard.