The Assassin's Wife (38 page)

“So no one knows who killed him?” I turned to face the girl.

“No, but some names were mentioned—”
 

Did I detect the glint of accusation in her eyes?
 

“Thank you, Amy, for letting me know the news.” Though my heart hammered, I turned back to the settle and picked up my sewing. “But there’s no need to wait with me,” I said cool as frost. “I’m sure Master Forrest will be home soon.”
 

Gossip raged for days after but no one was brought to account. Miles dismissed my questions though I suspected his involvement even before I heard Lucy chattering in the buttery, for from that night he stopped going to the village and drank over-much at home instead.

* * * * *

“Found lying on the steps with his skull broke,” Lucy said with relish. The buttery maid’s little mouth formed a perfect O of horror. She leaned forward like a butterfly lured by the sweet taste of nectar.

“Oh he’s an evil temper, that one. I wouldn’t want to cross him.”

“Si told me Dawkins was a spy.” Lucy gabbled with excitement. “Forrest had the Duke of Gloucester’s instruction to silence him. It’s not the first time. They say he’s undertaken such commissions before. Why, I heard, he even had a hand in poor King Henry’s death!”

“But they say King Harry died of melancholy.”
 

Lucy snorted at the wench’s gasp. “Everyone knows that sainted idiot was murdered. Five years they kept him a prisoner in the Tower and everyone knew King Edward wanted him dead.” She lowered her voice and leaned toward the maid. “They say his corpse bled on the pavement at St Paul’s in London. Folk who saw the body say his skull was crushed— the hair all matted with blood. Does that sound like melancholy? No, our duke recommended some reliable skull-breaker to rid his brother of a nuisance—”

“Forrest?”

“Who else? He was with the duke in London that May. It’s what he’s hired to do—why, everyone knows that. The rest is wind— And I’ll wager this business with Dawkins—” She looked up suddenly and spotted me.
 

“But was Dawkins a spy?” persisted the buttery-maid.

“Why, hinny, how would I know?” Lucy chuckled nervously. She nodded at me to alert the girl’s attention. “Why, Mistress Forrest, how are you? Amy tells me you’ll shortly be returning to Middleham. You’ll happen find the journey something of a trial.” She smiled sympathetically at my swollen belly.
 

“No more than when I came here, I hope.” Her broad face flushed with embarrassment. I think she could have bitten out her tongue, recalling my earlier miscarriage.

“Ee, I’ve never known a hotter summer,” she said to cover her embarrassment.
 

I clung to the door post, my mind still whirling. Lucy’s suggestion that Miles had been hired to murder King Henry horrified me. Yet Miles
had
accompanied the duke to London in May. “It’s what he’s hired to do…” Those words gnawed at me. My queasy stomach lurched threateningly.

“You’ve gone very pale, hinny,” Lucy’s voice echoed from afar. I sank down on the stool she brought. And suddenly, unbidden, I glimpsed a broken cage and a forlorn black bird hopping to and fro upon a simple altar, a spattering of blood before the cross—

“It’s a fair way from here to Yorkshire,” said the buttery-maid.
 

“Miles has promised I’ll ride in a litter like a grand lady,” I replied.

Lucy handed me a pewter mug and, forcing down nausea, I swallowed a mouthful of weak ale. She squeezed my hand.
 

“We’ll miss you here at Barnard.” Her eyes shone with sincerity. “It’s no light matter having a child. I should know, for I’ve had six.” She snatched a look at the buttery-wench and winked. “Remember that when you’re strolling in the dark with that lad of yours!”

The babe would be born at the end of November, that dark mysterious time of year. Already the thought of its creeping fogs oppressed my spirits. I daren’t say anything to Miles. He’d grown more sensitive about what he termed my “odd fancies” even though he showed a tender regard for my condition that quickly drew us back into our old intimacy.
 

Relieved to be back in Yorkshire and to glimpse the towers of Middleham with their painted gargoyles like powerful sentinels hove into view, I tried to blot out the implication of Miles’ secret errands.

Chapter Forty-Seven

Middleham Castle

“Your Grace!”

Nicholas Headlam, pale face scalded by fierce sunlight, panted across the green, rudely interrupting the game of bowls Lady Anne was playing with Meg Huddleston, Grace Pullan and her clever cousin Elizabeth Parre.

Lady Anne shouted with delight as Grace Pullan’s ball swerved, striking against Meg Huddleston’s with a loud crack and driving it further off target. Then laughing because she was winning, she snatched the scroll from the messenger’s hands and scanned its contents.

A fierce frown swiftly replaced the smiles. Throwing down the letter and abandoning her ball with a thud, she stormed into the castle. Mouths dropped open. Grace and Meg exchanged wide-eyed looks, while quick-witted Elizabeth snatched up her yellow skirts and ran lightly across the grass in pursuit. The stifling August heat crackled with tension. Clumsily, I stooped to retrieve the letter.

“What’s displeased Lady Anne so much? Read it, Nan. What does it say?”

“It says Her Grace, Queen Elizabeth, has been safely delivered of a son,” I answered, dizzy with the effort of rising too swiftly. “And he’s to be named Richard.”

How many messages passed in their quick, furtive glances!

Ignoring an embarrassed Nicholas Headlam, brushing aside the excited gaggle of women, I plodded heavily after the duchess. I’d a fierce headache from lingering in the sun and this news stirred old anxieties.
 

In the corridor I stumbled into Miles returning from the stables. He slipped a supportive arm about me, his face alight with impertinent humour.

“So the Wydeville bitch has whelped another brat!”
 

“That’s unfair, Miles. Childbirth’s as difficult for a queen as it is for the lowliest spinner. Besides, she’s overcome misfortune and endured poverty to achieve her present status. With the king in exile, she waited alone in the Westminster Sanctuary—”

“Hardly alone, sweeting. She had her witch of a mother with her—”

“And no idea whether she’d ever see her husband again.”

“You’re too generous, my love.” Miles squeezed me close and dropped a kiss on my cheek. “But it’s the queen’s family the barons really hate, isn’t it, Guy?” He appealed to the little lad he’d hired to attend on us. “They’re like greedy geese, always following her to court, and begging favours of the king. Popinjays is what folk call them, for they’re nothing but petty country squires who don’t deserve advancement. Besides,” he added, with a wink, patting my jutting belly, “they breed like conies!”
 

“Suppose these two princes are the ones I dream about—the ones in danger?”
 

Throwing back his head, he roared with laughter. Taking his lead, snub-nosed Guy, dancing at his heels, grinned up at me, roguish face brimming with mischief.
 

“What nonsense passes through your pretty head!” Miles kissed me indulgently. “I suppose you’ll have me galloping off to London now and vowing to guard these Wydeville princes with my life?”
 

Impatiently I shook him off, pressing a hand to my throbbing temples.

This sudden gesture erased his mirth. Halting my steps, he turned me toward him. “You look pale, Nan. Never mind Lady Anne—Let me have Guy fetch you some spiced wine.” Frowning, he touched my brow. “As I guessed! Standing in the sun’s made you feverish. Lady Anne’s thoughtless keeping you outside so long.”

Having dispatched the lad to the kitchens, he steered me towards our chamber, and in spite of my protestations that I could prepare myself a hot infusion of sweet marjoram, carried me to the settle. He made me lie back while he stroked my temples—his strong hands amazingly soothing. “You worry over-much, lass. Put these wild thoughts out of your mind and let me take care of you. We must be specially careful of you now.”

But I miscarried at the end of September. Though Jane Collins comforted my distress, Miles suffered most. He blamed himself for the shock of my encountering Chrissie Burnham at Barnard, the accusations he’d levelled at me in July, and the discomfort of the journey back to Middleham.
 

I lay on the couch in the hazy, purple twilight, still weak and defeated by my loss, too preoccupied to heed him. Only Jane Collins witnessed my rage. She listened without censure as I railed bitterly against the fate that had robbed me of my child, yet favoured the rude health of the bastard boy being raised in the north.
 

“Forgive me Nan.” Miles knelt beside me, cursing his neglect. “I’ve been too hard on you—but by the Rood, I was afraid someone would tell the duke about the fortune-telling—” He bowed his head like a sinner seeking absolution. “If you’d stayed at Barnard you might have kept this babe—” With a sob he laid his head on my hands.

Absentmindedly, I stroked the unruly black hair, too bruised to answer. He
had
hurt me that last summer. I’d seen a side of him I never imagined, and the shock of it still burned. Could I forgive him? Vaguely I wondered if we’d ever recapture that tempestuous rush of feeling that had driven us to seek out one another for so long.

Would I ever hold a child of my own in my arms? Leaning over the cradles of the babes in the nursery, I ached with longing. I was twenty years old. Was I destined to remain barren like Lady Anne?
 

The little duchess had miscarried several times. Hearing of my loss, she called upon me at once and, scattering sweetmeats into my lap, urged me to make a speedy recovery. But her merry humour couldn’t hide her own anguish and I took her hand in mine. For a moment we shared a wordless sympathy.

“You must join my ladies.” Her false cheer stung me to tears. “Nursery duties are too burdensome for you. I missed you while you were at Barnard.” She turned to leave, a bird-boned figure in a hyacinth-blue gown, then paused as if remembering something. “We’ve much to discuss.”

The import of those words struck me like a blow.
 

* * * * *

During the next months, she kept me constantly at her side, introducing me to her circle of well-born waiting women in the bower-chamber as her dearest friend in an hour of great need.

“Without Nan, I might still be languishing in that awful kitchen in Dowgate.” Her proud manner clearly invited all to look at me, causing me much embarrassment. Under the sharp scrutiny of their curious, aristocratic gaze, I felt small and insignificant, a common creature among thoroughbreds. Amused by my bashful manner, she recounted the fantastical tale of her disguise.

“I’ve at least one thing for which I may thank my cousin, George,” she said. A coquettish tilt of her head lent amusement to her expression. “If he’d not hidden me in Dowgate, I’d never have met Nan. She showed me my destiny.”

A rustle of interest stirred amongst the keen-eyed ladies. Guiltily I flinched, aware of the fortune telling cards hidden behind a loose brick in the fireplace in our apartment.
 

“Ah, but that’s a secret not for your ears,” she said teasingly. “Your busy tongues would tattle to the whole of Middleham if I told you all. Suffice to say Nan helped me find my destiny in my husband, the Duke of Gloucester.”

She urged them out into the gardens, retaining me to stroll with her through the draughty avenues of fluttering trees. Watery October sunshine sent the ladies scampering like a flock of unruly hens. The shrill tones of their animated gossip floated on the wind. No doubt they prattled of Lady Anne’s latest whim—me. But few were privy to her thoughts.

She proved a skilled dissembler. I watched her play the dutiful wife at banquets. Eyes downcast, she feigned humility. Noble guests thought her meek, demure as a maid, timid like her mother, but I knew this to be a sham, a mask that hid a scheming, clever mind. Mild-faced Isabelle, her elder sister, was the humble wife, but Lady Anne favoured her father. How well she deceived—especially her husband, whose own ambition she fed drop by drop, sweetly urging him to extend his power in the north.

“Did you ever see King Henry’s French Queen?”

We sat in her bower-chamber a little apart from the others while Katherine Scrope read aloud from some book of romance. The rainy late autumn afternoon seemed to quiet us. In the mellow candle-light the elegant ladies drooped over discarded needlework, their rapt faces caught up in the tale of chivalry.
 

“Only as she rode by in a procession.”

Lady Anne’s eyes glittered with sly remembrance. “Now there was a woman.” I noted her grudging admiration with curiosity. “Marguerite d’Anjou—a woman of strongest mettle. How she chastised my father! I saw him on his knees before her, saw him kiss the hem of her gown and beg forgiveness, then heard him swear allegiance to Lancaster.” She laughed harshly, causing Katherine to pause. The ladies swivelled their heads.