The Assassin's Wife (47 page)

Chapter Fifty-Nine

“Hurry Nan!” Emma burst into the nursery and stood dancing from one foot to the other with impatience and cold. “We’ve been called to help the Duchess’s ladies with the packing.”

Jane Collins held out her arms to take Dickon from me. We watched the fluttering dance of the snowflakes as they drifted by the little lancet window.
 

December brought a whirl of winter storms and overnight the moors turned into a hostile wilderness. Already deep drifts blocked some roads. Brother Brian would be snow-bound at austere Jervaulx Abbey now.
 

“Ssh Emma!” Mistress Collins frowned. “Tha’ll wake the prince. He hardly slept a wink last night. Did tha get that milk? Wherever hast tha been all this time?”

The girl’s already frost-reddened cheeks darkened guiltily.
 

“Gossiping, I’ll wager.” An exasperated Jane Collins gently uncurled Dickon’s fingers from her hair and tried to restrain his struggles to escape from her lap. “What’s all this about packing?”
 

“On my way to the buttery I met Amy Sadler. She said the Gloucesters are going to spend Christmas in York, and—”

“Well that’s no surprise.” Jane chuckled at Dickon’s loud demands for “snow.”
 

“But straight after they’re going to London.” Emma looked as if she was about to burst with excitement. “King Edward’s invited them to Prince Richard’s wedding!”

“Ee, what a pother over a couple of bairns,” said the stout Yorkshire-woman. “Prince Richard’s still nobbut a babe. King Edward’s after that Mowbray lass’s inheritance before anyone else offers her marriage. Tom Metcalf knew as much.”

I couldn’t help laughing at her blunt reproof. The king’s avarice was legendary and little Anne Mowbray reputed the richest heiress in the country.

“When’s this grand occasion to be?” I followed Emma from the nursery.

“The fifteenth of January. Oh Nan, wouldn’t it be wonderful to be there? Amy said—”

“This way, this way!” A strident voice already issued commands. We climbed the stairs to the ducal apartments. Jostled by sweating servants doubled over with the weight of boxes and furnishings, we did our best to avoid the mischievous attentions of Master John, Lady Anne’s fool, who revelled in all the chaos. Crouching like a little ape, he thrust his bauble under the feet of the unwary— antics which earned cuffs and curses from the men-folk and outraged squeaks from women who tripped over their skirts.
 

“Watch out!” called Emma.
 

Master John reached out to pinch me. Laughing, I twisted away from the snatching fingers and leapt up two steps at a time.

“Oh, see how the little mice scamper when the cat’s invited them to a great feast!” The fool began capering on the steps until one of the bolder lads gave him a kick in the buttocks that sent him tumbling down. Even then he seemed unrepentant, curling up like a ball and bouncing and yowling until he reached the bottom where he scuttled about like a spider, endeavouring to creep beneath the skirts of an empty-headed scullery-wench. This trick provoked wild shrieks, especially from the matrons, but much bawdy laughter from the men.

When we reached Lady Anne’s chambers, we faced a storm of flung garments— velvet gowns trimmed with miniver, silken hose, hoods, kerchiefs, silver girdles, golden collars, fustian kirtles, lawn under-gowns and soft leather shoes. Staggering underneath a load of winter robes like a pack-horse, I found myself nudged into a line of similarly burdened bodies and bullied down the stairs.

“Do you think I’ll go to London?” A pile of mantles tucked under her nose muffled Emma’s speech.
 

“I doubt it.” I sneezed, spitting tufts of fur. “Only a few of the duchess’s noble ladies will be chosen. Be thankful for the Christmas festivities in York. That journey in the snow will be bad enough, but travelling to London will be particularly unpleasant in this raw season.”

“But Amy said you’re to be part of Lady Anne’s entourage.” Emma paused to stab me with a sharp look.

I hoisted my bundle of sliding furs higher inwardly cursing Amy Sadler’s clacking tongue. That wench seemed to know everything. “I’d rather huddle by the fire than shiver in an open litter in the driving sleet,” I answered, feigning reluctance. “I don’t relish the long journey, or the separation from Dickon.”

“But you’ll have new gowns.” She pouted with envy. “Alice Skelton’s telling Meg Huddleston the duchess has ordered splendid clothes for all her attendants. You’re so lucky, Nan.”

I laughed off her resentment, conscious that many of Middleham’s servants wondered how I’d managed to gain a place in the inner circle of favoured ladies. In spite of my lowly birth, the duchess’s intimates treated me respectfully. Several times, clever Elizabeth Parre asked my opinion of village wise women and I noted how intently the others listened to my answers.
 

“You’re quite the wise-woman yourself, Nan.” Meg Huddleston examined a flask of valerian root from the basket of herbals I brought into the bower-chamber to show them. “What’s this for?”

“It brings calm, refreshing sleep. And this one is thyme-vinegar which is good for headaches.”

“I’ll vouch for its efficacy.” Lady Anne made a wry face. “You should try it, Alice, for those headaches which have plagued you recently.”

“And I swear by Nan’s infusion of frumitory to fade freckles,” said Grace. Sheepishly she confessed her regular patronage for my remedies. “Haven’t you noticed how mine have almost disappeared? That little dairy-wench, Amy, recommended it. She knows a lot about Nan’s expertise. She said at Barnard—”

“I’ve others for blemishes and troublesome spots,” I said quickly, “and a wonderfully soothing skin lotion made from lovage and daisies—Here, smell it.”

They clustered around me, tasting, sniffing, touching—but also passing secret smiles as if daring one another to ask more. Did they know something about my fortune-telling skills? Whenever I heard someone mention Amy’s name I squirmed. The wench seemed to have inveigled herself into everyone’s confidence.

“Take me with you to London, my Lady.”

I lingered when the duchess dismissed the others and offered to let her try my newest skin lotion. She lay on the settle so I might massage it into her forehead, smoothing away anxious lines with gentle outward strokes. Tension seized her in its vice as soon as I made my request, but I maintained the sweeping rhythm of my fingers quite unperturbed.
 

“I’ve often heard you express concern about your family’s welfare, and I know you’re anxious for your son’s future. You told me there are several dangerous
factions
at court. Perhaps if I witness these at work I’ll better be equipped to advise you.”
 

She sat up suddenly. “You’re very determined, Mistress Nan.” Her restless hands toyed with the phials and bundles in my basket, her shoulders rigid. “I think you’ve something very particular in mind.”

“It’s always best to see one’s rivals face to face, Your Grace.” Mischievously, I added, “But you’re right, of course. I’m hopeless at pretending. I’d like to visit family in the city. So I beg a favour for a favour.”
 

She caught my eye and at once the tension ebbed away. “How can I refuse such a charming request?” She sniffed the flask of valerian with a sly smile. “Besides, my husband needs your husband’s services, so what could be more appropriate than you travel with us?”

Chapter Sixty

The magnificent Christmas Feast at York drew all the duke’s northern friends to his table. Wearing a fine blue damask gown made from fabric Miles brought from London, I sat down to dine in the great hall lit by the flames of a hundred flambeaux conscious of many admiring glances. Fleetingly I wondered what my mother and Fat Marion would have said if they’d seen me among such affluent company.
 

“The duke’s noted for his generosity,” Miles murmured in my ear. “There’s already a flock of peasants and supposed pilgrims at the kitchen door waiting for the seasonal offerings of food and wine.”

“I suspect His Grace imitates the late Earl of Warwick,” said Tom Metcalf, from beside me. “Warwick’s hospitality’s legendary in these parts, and I daresay Lady Anne encourages her husband to follow in her father’s ways.”

I leaned to question Master Metcalf further about Warwick when an ear-splitting fanfare of trumpets announced the arrival of the boar’s head. A troupe of serving men in white lawn shirts and scarlet hose carried it in on a silver platter. How we cheered this opening signal of the traditional Christmas Banquet! Miles filled my goblet to the brim, ogling a vast peacock pie, garnished with magnificent tail feathers, as it passed amongst us. While hasty servers distributed platters the Duke of Gloucester gave the toast, urging us to enjoy this sumptuous repast in honour of Our Lord’s Birth.
 

Piety forgotten, we fell upon the food, cramming our greedy bellies while merry music issued from the gallery. Momentarily I forgot the bitter wind whining about the castle and the harsh journeys to come.
 

After Twelfth Night, Miles and I would ride south in the Gloucesters’ entourage. Though awed by the thought of sharing chambers with Lady Anne’s high-born ladies at Westminster, I shook with excitement. I’d see King Edward again. I’d see the queen and her mysterious French mother reputed to be a witch, and perhaps glimpse her handsome father, the unfortunate object of the old nobility’s greatest disdain. And, at last, I’d see the boy I believed to haunt my visions. I trembled at the thought of the daring plan I’d devised to alert their mother of the danger which threatened her sons.
 

Miles eluded questions concerning his duties at the wedding, but Lady Anne’s words roused misgivings. What services did Gloucester require of Miles? All through the Christmas revels my mind fermented with anxiety.

Emma, on the other hand, forgot her disappointment, elegant in a new gown of fine pearl-grey worsted trimmed with crimson, and absorbed by all the lively festivities. Giggling and sharing confidences, she played at ninepins with the other maids and delighted in the dancing, quickly learning to execute the steps of the pavanne and the farandole. Several young swains courted her favours and whenever they swept her into the revelry, I smiled fondly—until Jack Green joined their number.

“Don’t allow Master Green too much licence,” I said. “He’s something of a reputation among the ladies.”

She blushed, lowering her gaze, so pretty and vulnerable, I trembled for her. Smug Jack, flaunting an amber journade with long, padded, gold sleeves edged in dark fur, winked at me. Uneasily I watched the dancers glide by.

“Well, lass,” Miles seized me around the waist, “have you no time for your husband?”

Before I could answer he kissed me heartily on the mouth, rousing a roar of approving male voices. He whirled me into a wild dance, spinning and lifting me at tremendous speed until my ears and eyes stung with noise and brilliance. Clinging to him as the music faded, I reeled like a drunkard, glad to sit on his lap while an impudent-faced minstrel and his accomplices entertained us with a score of ribald ballads.

By Twelfth Night most of the men lay slumped across the tables, too fuddled with ale to stay awake. That evening nimble dancers leaped and jingled about the great hall, and women ran shrieking from the lewd attentions of the Holly Man, a capering fellow in green hose, crowned and covered in a bushy disguise of twisted ever-greens and prickly holly boughs.
 

“Who’s won the bean?”
 

Everyone asked the question while we crumbled our fruit-laden portions of the rich Twelfth Night Cake.
 

“It’s Master Snowdon!” Genevieve Mountford shrieked and pointed at Lady Anne’s yeoman of the chamber sitting opposite. He seized her by the wrist, flaunting the bean he’d found in his cake with his other hand.
 

“I’m your Lord of Misrule for this night.” He rose with a loud guffaw. “Now, what task shall I appoint Mistress Genevieve?”