The Assassin's Wife (48 page)

Several mischievous young men called out lewd suggestions while Master Snowdon pounced upon other victims. Some abandoned their places in an attempt to avoid his notice, scattering crumbs and spilling wine, but once chosen, no one dared disobey his commands. The luxuriously decorated chamber soon echoed with roars of outrage and delight as these unfortunates executed ridiculous penalties.

“Oh no!” Emma squealed when Jack Green pulled a clove from his morsel of cake. Around them people shouted and gestured, faces puce with laughter.

“Villain of the evening Master Green!” Master Snowden executed an impudent bow in Jack’s direction. “I congratulate you on your title.”

Everyone cheered until a strident female voice called out in mocking tones, “Very apt for a faithless rogue!”

Though Jack feigned indifference, I knew such taunts annoyed him.

* * * * *

“I’m glad you’re to come with me to London, Nan.” Miles lurched through the draughty passage ways towards our chamber at the end of this last merriment. His words slurred. “I’d be lonely without you.” He fumbled at my gown.

With pretended exasperation, I prevented him from falling against a door.

“The Duke’s commanded me to ride with him. I can’t disobey an order, can I?” He smiled at me stupidly. When I finally steered him into our chamber, he fell, fully clothed, on the bed into heavy, snoring sleep.
 

Restless, I paced up and down, my thoughts jangling. What could the Duke of Gloucester want with Miles at his royal nephew’s wedding? What new secret, sinister errand had he in mind?

Next morning, fogged by a surfeit of spiced ale and lack of sleep, I took the cards from their hiding-place behind the loose brick in the hearth and thrust them into my bodice.

“Master Forrest’s gone to the stables.” Amy spoke from behind me. “I’m sorry, did I make you jump?”

“I didn’t hear you come in.” The blood burned in my face. “I didn’t realise you were here—”

“Oh yes, I secured a place among the servants,” she answered. A smile curved her plump lips. “Master Forrest sent me to help you dress, but I see you’ve managed already.” She eyed my murrey gown with such insolence I could have struck her. “Let me fetch a warm cloak.” She fastened the clasp and smoothed the folds, bowing her auburn head in the obsequious fashion of a lowly servant and then looked up with a calculating glint in her eye. “Master Forrest’s risen high in the duke’s favour. His friends in Staindrop will be pleased. And he promised to see me well rewarded for my assistance.”

“Thank you, Amy.” I snatched my hood over my head. How dare she remind me of that wanton wench who’d borne Miles a bastard child? My voice shook with suppressed fury. “I’m sure your worth will be appreciated.”

Outside I dithered in the frosty morning watching the breath of men and horses rise like steam while men servants completed the preparations for our departure with annoying slowness. Still smarting from Amy’s ingratiating manner, my mind turned suddenly to Brother Brian.
 

“This journey will test your strength,” he said. “Trust no one. These great ones have no conscience. They trample over one another without a qualm, intent only on furthering their own purposes. Be especially careful of the king. He won’t have forgotten Dame Eleanor Butler or the promises he made.”

Would Edward of York recognise me after all these years?

“Mistress Forrest.”

Insolent Jack Green tipped his fur-trimmed hat as he trotted by on a fine dappled gelding, his frozen smile driving a bolt of terror through me. So, Jack would be riding among the duke’s men after all. Fists-clenched, I cursed his inclusion in the retinue. What schemes simmered in that cunning brain of his? Jack Green threatened our safety.
 

Emma, wan and sleepy, turned out to bid me farewell. While I fretted at the delay she huddled against me for warmth, her gaze following Jack Green’s strutting posture.

“I hope you’re not so smitten with Master Green as to weep for his departure,” I said. “Or is it just the cold that makes your eyes water so?”

“Why do you dislike Jack so much?”
 

“Take care he doesn’t break your heart.” I could have bitten out my tongue when her face twisted into the ugliness of grief.

Chastened, I hugged her, recalling my own foolishness where Miles was concerned. “I don’t want to see you get hurt, Emma. Now promise me you’ll take special care of Dickon while I’m away.”

Leaving my boy sleeping in the nursery gave me a heart-wrenching moment. How small and innocent he seemed, his fists lying upon the pillow, his lips parted, the soft whisper of his breath gently stirring the pile of the velvet coverlet.
 

Stomach churning with sudden dread, I climbed up into the cart amidst a jabber of female voices. Suppose I met Bishop Stillington in London? The servants cheered as we set off, doffing their caps with exaggerated courtesy. Disconcertingly, I glimpsed Amy Sadler’s pert face among the crowd. I turned away to wave a hand at an ashen-faced Miles as he rode by on his snorting steed towards the head of the company. He made no gesture of acknowledgement and I shuddered. It seemed an ominous farewell.
 

Chapter Sixty-One

At Westminster I shared a chamber with Genevieve Mountford and Alice Skelton—a luxurious room, oak-panelled and draped with velvet hangings. The enormous carved beds, canopied and curtained in embroidered damask, were furnished with warm feather quilts and silken counterpanes. Two oak settles scattered with gold woven cushions, a carved chest and a press for garments, a large looking-glass, a stool, several pewter candlesticks, and a woollen tapestry depicting a hunting scene completed our comfort. Fresh rushes on the tiled floor lay fragrant with sprinkled meadowsweet.

Chattering like magpies, we helped each other dress in the cherry-coloured gowns Lady Anne had chosen.

“That colour suits you, Nan.” Genevieve spoke with genuine admiration.

“It brings out the brilliance of your eyes,” agreed Alice. She smoothed her rippling skirts.
 

Touched by the sisterly way she and Alice treated me, I paused to smile at my reflection in the glass.
 

“Don’t you think it makes me look pale?” Genevieve came to stand behind me, frowning and twisting her head this way and that.

“You need some colour on your cheeks, that’s all.” Alice produced a casket in which she kept scented lotions, perfumes and little pots of coloured powder. “Send the girl to the kitchen for eggs,” she said.

Puzzled, I dispatched the little serving-maid assigned to us upon this errand. When she returned, Alice showed us how to mix an egg yolk with finely ground red powder to make a paste. This she smoothed over Genevieve’s cheeks and lips. The dramatic change astounded me.

“You look lovely,” I said. I stood back to survey Alice’s skilful painting. “Like a flower in bloom!”

Yielding to Alice’s persuasion I allowed her to decorate my face, too. How we giggled as she applied a silvery-blue powder to our eye-lids, and then, with a little, pointed stick drew a smudgy charcoal line above and below our eyes to accentuate them.
 

“Don’t we look beautiful?” Alice laughed. Eagerly, we peered into the glass.

“I fear men will swoon when they see us!” said Genevieve.

“How did you come by such stuff?” Pleased by my own startling transformation, my eyes staring huge and full of light, I examined the pots of colour, sniffing at the various creams and lotions.

“The dyer in Middleham has all kinds of things. They’re not all costly, though some are made from crushed gems. Mistress Glover, the chandler’s wife makes herbal remedies too. But you’re skilled at making skin lotions yourself, Nan, so those will be no secret to you. The older matrons disapprove of painting, but why look jaded when one can look rosy? Anyway, Lady Anne herself has been known to use such artifice.”

Certainly we drew admiring glances when we joined the duchess’s entourage. Following her slight figure in its emerald velvet encrusted with pearls, we entered the Chapel of St Stephen for the wedding ceremony.

The walls of St Stephen’s hung with tapestries of azure and golden fleur de lis. Dressed in crimson cloth-of-gold, little Prince Richard waited under a golden canopy for his bride. A sturdy boy with thick red-gold hair, he stood with his back towards us as we edged into our places. Beside him, slender and stately in silver tissue, the queen turned her haughty gaze upon the congregation. Glancing about surreptitiously I noted the slight, crimson-clad figure of the Duke of Gloucester but caught no sign of Miles among his attendants.

“Oh look!” Alice turned, breathless with wonder. Anne Mowbray, copper-red hair streaming down her back, progressed solemnly down the aisle led by a tall, lithe, gentleman with hair of palest gold.
 

The royal children in their wedding finery, pledging their vows in piping voices, earned indulgent smiles and tear-bright glances.

Turning at last, the prince rewarded our loud acclaims with a broad grin as if caught out in some mischief. I gulped at the sight of his bright, impish face. While others cheered I watched this merry-faced boy of my dreams walk toward me, clasping his pretty bride by the hand. Her fine-boned features reminded me of that other little prince at Middleham whose fragile health gave us sleepless nights. Instantly I realised Anne Mowbray wouldn’t make old bones. But the boy beside her seemed full of promise. My heart ached to snatch him up and run to some place of safety where evil, ambitious men couldn’t find him.

“Did you see the king?” Genevieve giggled her way back to our chamber. Hurriedly, we cast off our garments.
 

“How fat he’s grown,” I said, standing in my shift before the glass. I mourned the loss of the lean, muscular giant who’d visited Eleanor at Silver Street. The golden youth with the easy charm whose friendly arm had once draped around Lionel’s shoulder had gone forever. In his stead loomed a huge, corpulent figure with a bloated face and piggy eyes that disappeared into ridges of mottled flesh. Magnificent clothes studded with precious gems couldn’t conceal the swollen neck, the massive thighs and enormous belly straining at the seams.
 

Alice sighed folding away her cherry-coloured sleeves. “He was once so handsome women swooned with desire as he passed.”

Genevieve smirked. “Well, they say certain ladies still battle for his favours. Can you imagine what it must be like to bed with such a mountain?”
 

“The queen must be made of strong stuff!”
 

Alice rolled on her bed weeping with laughter.
 

“I heard Mistress Shore’s mad with love for him.” Genevieve mopped her eyes on the hangings.
 

“Perhaps she appreciates his hidden qualities,” I said.
 

“Bawdy talk will make us late.” Alice dragged the blue and gold gowns Lady Anne instructed us to wear for the feast and jousting at Greenwich from the oak chest. “Make haste and I’ll fix your hair and faces. Nan, you must let me pluck back your hairline to broaden the sweep of your brow.”

Scented with rose-water, we finally tip-toed down the steps, necks strained under the weight of piled up hair, stretching up our heads like swans—hoping to hide the effort of balancing the elaborate gauzy butterfly headdresses.

“Our king fashions his court on that of Duke Philip of Burgundy.” Alice pointed out the luxurious furnishings as we entered the hall in the wake of Lady Anne, who bloomed like an exotic flower in a shimmering purple gown edged with marten fur.
 

Exquisitely decorated, Greenwich’s palace walls hung rich with vivid tapestries and cloth-of-gold. By the great carved doors the king stood to welcome his guests, a towering figure in scarlet doublet flashing huge diamonds. His engaging laughter boomed with warmth. None could resist the magic of his presence. The household gentlemen, wearing collars of suns and white roses, directed us to our places, while our duke plunged his hands into golden basins filled with gold and silver coins, casting them to all the people present. I felt sure this extravagance would enrage the worthy London merchants whose wages were subject to the king’s new, exorbitant taxes but like my companions I was carried along by the enchantment of the spectacle.

From her seat at the high table, the queen, in gold silk and ermine and wearing the tallest hennin I’d ever seen, clapped her slender hands, smiling upon us graciously. Around her thronged her numerous family members, and while the servers plied us with yet more sumptuous delicacies, Alice and Genevieve pointed them out to me by name.
 

That night I slept badly. Perhaps the rich food and the strange bed contributed in part to my discomfort, but long after Genevieve and Alice succumbed to sleep, I lay restless. Learning the victorious knight of the magnificent tournament was the queen’s brother, Anthony Wydeville, the pale-haired gentleman who’d escorted the little bride into the chapel, I grew doubly anxious for the safety of the princes. Hadn’t the older boy asked for this uncle in my vision? And hadn’t Bishop Stillington held up his severed head? Clearly the distinguished nobleman, famous for his learning as well as his jousting, stood in grave danger. But my priority remained to save the little boys. Eventually my feverish plotting as to how I might seize a moment to speak to the queen dulled my brain. I sank into a troubled, unsatisfactory sleep.