The Assassin's Wife (49 page)

Waking the following morning from muddled dreams I gritted my teeth under giddy Genevieve’s relentless prattle. Pleading a headache, I lay with the curtains drawn about my bed, relieved when she and Alice took themselves off to breakfast.

Later, wrapped in my warmest cloak, I strolled outside in the frosty gardens to clear my head. The parklands shimmered with ice and by the lake I paused to watch the swans gliding gracefully under the willow trees. Several young children stood feeding titbits to a herd of fallow deer and men and women in thick fur mantles nodded to me as they passed.
 

Inside I met Genevieve weaving her way through a rowdy mass of elegantly dressed courtiers parading in the opposite direction towards the great hall. She held out a small wooden box and a sealed note.

“Lady Anne’s asked me to take this to the queen.” She wrinkled her brow with impatience, glancing at the passing hubbub. “I’ll probably miss supper.”

“I’ll take it.” Rejoicing in this piece of luck, I snatched the note from her hesitant fingers. “If you hurry, you might just catch the eye of that young squire in Lord Hastings’ retinue you danced with last night.”

Thrusting the box into my hands, she scampered away in a moment leaving me to navigate the winding passageways towards the queen’s apartments. Twice I got lost and had to ask directions of men in livery, but the music finally steered me to her. Drums and tabors marked out foot-tapping rhythms, and outside a pair of vast oaken doors towered armed men wearing the sun-ray blazon of York.

By then my heart beat its own rapid tune. What should I say? For days I’d rehearsed my speech but now the moment had come, the words seemed weak and futile.

A riot of colour and sound assailed me as those great doors swung open. The inner chamber sparkled in a dazzle of torches and blazing candles. I glimpsed a swirling troupe of golden-haired maids executing an intricate figure to the musicians’ beat. These silver clad girls with garlands of silk blossoms about their unbound hair, I took to be the princesses.
 

Servants carrying dishes of sweetmeats stepped aside as I edged towards the high dais where the queen reclined on one elbow among a heap of jewelled cushions. The eyes of a score of burly guards followed me intently.

Gracious matrons in elegant gowns of varying shades of blue, embroidered about the hem and sleeves with silver rose emblems, surrounded the Wydeville queen. In cloth-of-gold the bright colour of a jay’s feathers, her wondrous, silver-gilt hair bound up in an elaborate pearl-encrusted net, she nestled upon silver-grey cushions embroidered with seed-pearls, like a mermaid upon rocks.
 

Nervously I sank into a deep curtsy to announce the purpose of my errand. A blue-liveried page took my offerings, kneeling wordlessly before the queen. Ignoring us, she scanned the message. Around the chamber the buzz of conversation continued without falter; the chink of pewter and the ring of glass mingled with light laughter; the dance progressed. She kept us kneeling a long time. Limbs trembling, I held my breath, summoning up courage to speak out.
 

“Return my thanks to the duchess for her gift.” She looked up at last. Her voice drawled, languid with boredom. The box remained unopened.

I raised my eyes to the exquisite features, taking in the pure white forehead, the finely arched brows, the petal blush of colour across the sculpted cheek-bones, the perfect coral of her lips. She sat so still she might have been a marble statue.
 

“Your Grace.”
 

Her eyes widened with surprise. I caught the rustle of fabric as she drew upright, smelled the subtle fragrance of lilies. “You’ve some other message to deliver?” The tone whipped, sharp with annoyance. The eyes gleamed winter-cold.

“I must speak out, Your Grace. I must warn you.”

There, it was done. I pressed my nails against the soft flesh of my palms, conscious of the quiver in my calves and the cruel press of the marble tiles against my knees. The silence crackled with tension.

“Who are you?”
 

The white heat of her anger scalded.

“Waiting-woman to the Duchess of Gloucester, Your Grace,” I replied. My heart’s drum accelerated. “But my duty to the crown bids me speak. Your Grace, I come to remind you of Astwith Gorse.”

The shock of her gasp sparked a flutter among the matrons. She lifted a slender hand. The music died. Conversation ceased.

“Be gone.” Her command exploded like the snap of ice. “The entertainment is at an end.”

A clatter and a scrambled removal of platters and instruments fractured the silence. Whispers of protest travelled among the princesses. The chamber emptied. About the queen, the matrons hovered uncertainly while the guards froze at their posts, pikes crossed.

“Now,” she said, fingers caressing the delicate necklace about her throat, “tell me what you know of Astwith Gorse.”

My gaze arrowed to the milky stones winking bright colours. I watched them turn to drops of water.

“I bring you tears without number, Your Grace.” Unbidden, the words spilled from my lips. “Remember the Egyptian woman on Astwith Gorse who promised you lasting fame? I travelled with her twelve years ago. She spoke of you and the prophecy she made.”

The queen leaned forward, hands gripping the sides of her chair, eyes fixed on mine. Staring into those black pupils, I travelled a dark corridor pulsing with menace.

“You’re no Egyptian.”

“No, but Mara taught me her skills. She sends me to you now—to remind you of the future she promised. “‘Bone of your bone will join three great houses in one.’ Isn’t that part of the prophecy?”

The hiss struck like a snake’s bite, but I didn’t flinch.

“Destiny chose you for greatness, Your Grace. You’ve wed the royal prince she promised. Your beauty and fame will continue beyond death, as predicted, but first—”

“What? “She spat the word at me, the venom in her voice unmistakable. “Tell me your worst, wench, whoever you are!”

“Grief beyond all imagining.” I saw again Mara’s dark lips speaking these words. “Troubles dire will fall upon your head. The time approaches, Your Grace. I come to warn you.”

“There
is
hope?” The voice executed a rising scale. The eyes raked my face.

“The boys, Your Grace. They must be saved. Don’t send them to the Tower.”

Brittle laughter trembled on the edge of hysteria.

“The Tower—Do you mean my sons? I can’t save the others—They’re dead these ten years—Tell me what you mean—enough of riddles and rhymes—I must know more—”
 

“Don’t part with the youngest. Don’t let them persuade you to it. Keep him close by you. All the knights in Christendom can’t save them if you yield.” Suddenly, alarmingly, I saw a red dragon fly through the sky. “Beware the dragon from the west. It will swallow up the sun and pluck the rose to wear upon its sleeve. It has no mercy.”

“I told you, no more riddles!” Her voice shrilled with anger. “Tell me truthfully, will my son one day wear the crown?”

I bowed my head. The pictures raced, leaping like stags across my inner vision. “I see the crown raised high and hear the triumphant anthem as the bishop lowers it—”

“And? Spit it out, wench. Don’t toy with me.”

“Your eldest daughter must be cherished, Your Grace. Destiny chooses her for a great marriage.” I heard her groan and rose at once, moving away like one in a trance.

“Wait!” The command halted me. The guards about the door clashed their pikes.
 

“Do you know I could have you burned for this fortune-telling?”

“I merely repeat the message I’m sent to deliver.” I didn’t turn my head. “Sooth-sayers must speak freely, Your Grace. Mara taught me that. I think you may have learned something of this from your lady mother—”
 

An angry growl curdled my blood. Attendants raced to draw me back but I couldn’t move. I’d chanced my riskiest remark, for the Duchess Jacquetta, Elizabeth Wydeville’s French mother, was reputed to be a powerful witch. Knowing this, would the queen dare accuse me of sorcery?

“Let her go.”
 

The thwarted attendants sighed.
 

“Does the Duchess of Gloucester know of your skills, Mistress?”

Turning to acknowledge her authority with a deep curtsey, I answered boldly. “I have the duchess’s protection, Your Grace.”

Chapter Sixty-Two

No one sent for me. Obedient and quiet, I fulfilled my duties to Lady Anne. In my leisure time I gossiped with the other waiting women, played at cards as if I’d no cares. Just for amusement, Alice, Genevieve and I flounced about our bed-chamber in our shifts, tried on each other’s clothes, washed our hair and combed it different ways, leaned out of the window to jest with bold-eyed swains we lured to flatter us, or lay upon our beds nibbling sweetmeats.

But my daring act constantly occupied my thoughts. Had the queen spoken of me to her husband? Had she commanded her attendants to keep silent? Would someone tell Lady Anne of my indiscretion? And why did I feel such a sense of failure? More and more the futility of my warning oppressed me. Hideous dreams of the Tower chamber troubled my dreams. Every night the assassins prowled the darkness and every morning I denied the familiar figure whose northern voice I recognised so cruelly.

“I saw your husband with the duke this morning,” said Alice. Seizing me eagerly from amongst a group of the queen’s ladies chattering on the stairs, she drew me into our chamber. “No one looks as well in blue as he does, do they? But he was with that rogue, Jack Green
.
They were heading towards the council chamber. There’s a rumour Bishop Stillington’s being interrogated by the king’s inquisitors.”

“Stillington?” The name was a stab of fear. “I didn’t know he was at Westminster.”

“He’s involved somehow with that scandal about the Duke of Clarence.” Alice gave me a sharp look. “I thought you and he were old acquaintances. I’m sure Meg Huddleston said—”

“Jocelyn says Clarence will be hanged.” Genevieve’s high-pitched laughter interrupted us. She lay on her bed reading a letter but she sat up immediately she heard us come in, ready to share news she’d had of her latest admirer.
 

“I don’t think the king would harm his own brother,” reproved Alice.

“The queen’s ladies say he’ll be kept in prison a while,” I said.

Genevieve chattered of Clarence’s misdemeanours while I fretted over Alice’s words. What could that weasel Jack Green want with Miles?
No one looks as well in blue, do they?
The words taunted me. Vividly I saw Miles’ eyes full of apprehension.
What mischief had the duke sent them upon? And what did people know of my relationship with Stillington? I agonised on how I might get to Harry. Dare I remind the duchess of our bargain?
 

Towards the end of the month, heavy snow fell on the city. The lake at Greenwich froze. Some of the more adventurous of us went skating and boisterous youths pelted us with snow balls. This activity recalled the days of village childhood, with races on the ice and Fat Marion ladling out bowls of steaming broth. Red-nosed and laughing, we ran inside eager to sup warm wine and huddle by the fire.

“I’ll be first!” I hurtled along the corridor straight into the path of the king!

A gasp of horror and a falling back of my confused companions left me confronting this giant figure. Swathed in an enormous sable cloak, the hood drawn over his head, and with but a smatter of attendants about him, I assumed he intended to step outside for a moment of private entertainment.

Flustered, I sank into a curtsey, blurting apologies. Hearty laughter flowed over me like a cascade of warm water. The king drew me to my feet, his enormous, jewelled fingers crushing my hands.

“Have I seen you before, Mistress?”

I shook my head though my heart pounded with alarm. “I think not, Your Grace. I’m one of the Duchess of Gloucester’s waiting-women.”

“Ah, Gloucester’s people—from Middleham?” He surveyed me keenly, his hazel eyes flickering over my face and figure with practised appraisal. “And yet, I could have sworn I’d seen you somewhere else—a long time ago perhaps. Your eyes are most striking, Mistress—”

“Forrest, Sire—Johann Forrest.”

“So,” he cocked his head, his eyes glinting, calculating, “you’re Forrest’s wife. My brother speaks most highly of your husband, Madam. A loyal servant is a jewel. You’re fortunate, indeed, to have my brother’s favour—He’s sparing in his approbation. But you’re so like—” He smiled again, and in the ruin of his red-veined, bloated face, I glimpsed some vestige of the beauty he’d once worn so carelessly. “Did you never work in London?”

The question terrified. Something in the insistent way he stared at me and the insinuating manner in which he searched his memory for clues, flooded my face with guilty colour. Did he remember me after all these years?
 

“I worked in Mercer’s pie shop in the Chepe when I was a girl.”