The Assassin's Wife (51 page)

Somehow my mind performed a curious trick, linking it with another’s so that I saw through his eyes, tasted through his lips, heard through his ears and shared his suffering. I recognised Jack Green as the caller of the jeering toast. Miles laughed and ordered some knave named John to hold the victim’s legs. Never before had I seen a vision so strange. Events were surely catching up with me. What next?
 

Slipping early from my bed in the nursery next morning, I dressed in shivering anxiety. The grey, rain-lashed sky lightened as I made my way down to the Hall for breakfast. How I longed in that moment for Miles to draw me into the reassurance of his embrace, to tell me all was well, that his service to the duke demanded nothing but the carrying of messages and relaying of orders. But doubts, like a great flock of carrion birds feasted upon my thoughts.
 

I found Grace Pullan entertaining Lady FitzHugh with tales of Westminster and old Walt, spooning pottage into his surly mouth, making disgruntled comments. “A mighty expense for two little children.” He wiped dribble off his chin with the back of his hand. “I expect the king’ll be asking us to pay more taxes to pay for all this fol-de-rol.”

Genevieve, sitting opposite, turned up her aristocratic little nose and sniffed.

“Only a miser would put a price upon such an occasion,” she said. She toyed with her bread and meat as Walt hawked and spat and went off muttering about the foolishness of women-kind. She stuck out her tongue at his retreating figure. “Yon niggardy-breeches would’ve had a fit if he’d seen all we did in London.”
 

“You’re dressed very finely.”
 

Genevieve smiled, stroking elegant purple sleeves edged with coney fur. “I believe a certain gentleman may call upon me this day.”

“You’re a mischievous jade, Genevieve,” I teased. Grace Pullan laughed and Lady FitzHugh turned her attention on us with an indulgent smile. “Not satisfied with breaking hearts in London, you now seek to do the same in Yorkshire! But is there any news of Clarence?”
 

“Still in prison and set to lose all his titles and estates.” Genevieve pouted, looking pleased and smug. “Our little Lord Edward will be made Earl of Salisbury in his stead and the Duke will be Chamberlain of England. Lady Anne said it herself.”

“Well, we’ll see.” Lady FitzHugh seemed unconvinced.

Lady Anne has more power than any of you realise,
I thought, listening to their chatter,
but she won’t be satisfied until she wears a crown.

* * * * *

Three days of hectic preparations followed. Servants scrubbed and polished, swept and scoured, plumped up cushions and scattered sweet herbs among the rushes against the duke’s arrival. Lady Anne troubled her steward with endless instructions and sent us all on countless errands, so that I escaped to the nursery where the children proved less demanding.
 

During the afternoon of the fourth day she summoned us to the solar to listen to a harpist she’d hired to entertain her husband, knowing his fondness for music. A bleak sun streaked across the chamber like a sword, accentuating faces and eyes made pallid and hollow by winter’s absence of light. Melancholy brooded in the harps flowing arpeggios, lulling the mind into lost places and old memories, and I found myself thinking of Mara.
 

A sudden, harsh rap at the door destroyed the melody.
 

“A courier from London, Your Grace.” The steward’s brusque interruption provoked a rustle of curiosity. His familiar face seemed oddly strained and grim. “He brought this letter.”

Impatiently the duchess broke the seal. The chamber juddered into chilling silence. As if enchanted her features assumed a marble rigidity, her fingers curled like claws about the vellum. In a voice which shook and soared she read to us—

“The Duke of Clarence has been executed.”
 

“God have mercy.” Grace Pullan gasped and crossed herself—an action repeated on all sides. Even the harpist sketched a blessing.
 

“How could the king have his own brother put to death?” Meg Huddleston’s blanched face turned accusingly upon the duchess.

A terrible, cold sensation crawled through my limbs. Afraid I might faint again, I leaned against a trestle for support.
 

“No doubt the queen will be glad to have Clarence out of the way.” Lady Anne’s expression remained impassive but in her eyes a diamond-hard glitter ignited. “They say she’d good reason to fear him.”

No one spoke. Too many ugly rumours circulated. The king’s removal of Clarence meant Stillington would remain out of favour—an asset for my own safety—but Miles’ involvement bound him irrevocably to Gloucester. What other murderous schemes were being hatched in secret? This death would fuel Lady Anne’s ambitions for her precious son. An earldom beckoned but I knew she craved a loftier title.

Sure enough, Miles rode home in the duke’s entourage. Watching the familiar way the muscles moved in his shoulders as he dismounted in the courtyard, my heart lurched with that same passion as when I first saw him. I rushed headlong down the stairs. As always he swung me round in his arms, laughing and showering me with kisses. While he hugged me close, shaking snow-flakes from his hair, I found it hard to imagine he could ever hurt another. But when I took his hand in mine I trembled at its strength.

Chapter Sixty-Four

February’s snow showers quickly melted but little Ned of Middleham’s recovery proved equally brief. Struck down by a sudden fever that shook his frail body and addled his wits, the child took to his bed. While he rambled in a cruel delirium Lady Anne badgered Jane Collins with visits to the nursery and the duke consulted daily with his physician.
 

“The prince must be kept apart from the other children,” the duchess commanded. “His food and drink must be prepared separately. Nan, you must watch over him at all times. There’s no one else I can trust.”

I daresay many envied me this esteem but it caused more gossip. Perhaps she saw Dickon’s rude health as a testimony of my craft but I think she attributed more to my art as a seer.
 

“Can’t you look into his future?”
 

“I’ve already cast his horoscope, Your Grace. Destiny can’t be altered to fit our own desires.” I recalled Mara’s teaching with a heavy heart.

The stars predicted intelligence, quick wit and tenacity for Lord Ned, as well as affection and adulation—but a child born into a powerful family could surely expect such qualities. He didn’t lack courage and possessed a capacity for greatness, but poor health marred his fortunes. Unsurprisingly, the little duchess refused to accept the implications of this unwelcome augury.

“I know you can save him.” Her vehemence frightened me.
 

The following night as I sat by the child’s bed, the duke himself arrived.

“Will he recover?”

A pair of haunted eyes stared into mine. In the tumbling shadows cast by nervous candle-light I couldn’t tell whether they were blue or grey. Fear surrounded the duke like a miasma. I smelled it in his sweat.

“I believe so.” I kept my gaze steady although my hands trembled. “The fever’s finally abated and he’s sleeping calmly now. Sleep is the great healer, Your Grace.”

Together we looked at the child. The fine, corn-coloured hair lay limp and sweat-darkened upon the bolster, and the delicate, heart-shaped face gleamed waxen, but the breathing sounded more natural.

“If anything should happen to him—”

The voice cracked with emotion. This revelation of masculine suffering stung me to tears.
 

“I understand, Your Grace. There’s no one at Middleham who doesn’t love Lord Ned. He’s the sweetest child I ever nursed.”

“You’ve done well. Lady Anne’s always spoken highly of you. She’s never forgotten your kindness.” He touched my arm. “Now I, too, am in your debt. I’ll not let this pass unnoticed.”

The pinched face might have been carved out of wood. I couldn’t remember ever having seen such anguish.
How will it be,
I thought,
when there’s no more aid for this child?
In my heart I knew Lord Ned’s frequent fevers were not a passing phase. Hadn’t I seen the possibility of an early death in his birth chart? Though I’d tried to broach this subject with Lady Anne, she wouldn’t hear of it.

“My wife places much store by you.” He might have read my thoughts.

“I’m honoured, Your Grace,” I replied. I wished I could find the courage to speak honestly. I drew a breath. “My husband—”

“Is a loyal servant.” The troubled eyes fixed on mine. “I’ve trusted him with those things most dear to me.”

I’d never been so close to the duke before. I wanted to ask him to release Miles from servitude, to allow us to live freely far away from here, but now I had the chance I couldn’t speak of it. Fine lines like spider-webs etched his face. Stubble bruised his tightened jaw. His spirit burned as fierce as fire and I understood then why Miles pledged himself to follow this man. But Lady Anne nurtured his ambition. In spite of his tenderness for the child, a ruthless quality made me I shudder.

“You’re exhausted by your labours. You should rest. I’ll watch with the child now.” Strangely, compassion lurked in the enigmatic eyes.

“Your Grace should call me if there’s a need. I’ve given a herbal posset to Meg Huddleston for my Lady. She’s weary with watching and it’ll restore her strength.”

I longed to find some word of comfort to soothe away the twisted grimace of his mouth and ease his mind but my own inner eye filled with shocking images.
 

“My Lord—” I caught at the murrey velvet of his sleeve as he turned from me. “Sometimes we’re the victims of a fate more powerful than we realise. The moth drawn to the flame follows his desire even though the heat alerts him of danger. Sometimes we choose to follow a perilous pathway against the promptings of conscience or the heart.”
 

“You speak in riddles,” he said. But horror flooded into his eyes, and I knew I’d touched a nerve.

“You’ve many enemies about you, Your Grace,” I said daringly. “Forgive me for my presumption. I speak out of concern for you and yours.”

I made a curtsey, swiftly turned to leave, afraid he might see in my eyes the torn bodies and the bloodshed, the plunging hooves and tattered banners, the sinewy stranger’s hand grasping the fallen crown.

Back in the quiet of my own quarters where Miles slept deep, I fell upon my knees and prayed. I’d not prayed for a long time. I prayed for the child and the mother, but most of all I prayed for the consolation and absolution of the duke.

* * * * *

“Stillington’s arrested.”

Jack Green’s voice gloated. I halted by the half open door of our chamber and signalled Dickon to be quiet.
 

“So Ned Plantagenet grows more cautious.” Miles snorted with contempt. “I doubt the bishop will sing the information he seeks.”

“Oh, Stillington’s cunning. He’ll say as much as keeps him comfortable. But the king will stop his mouth once and for all if he thinks he knows too much.”

“What, after Clarence? I think not. He’d qualms enough about murdering his own brother, but when it comes to priests, these Plantagenets are squeamish.”

“Well, I’ll wager Stillington will wriggle free. Not because the king’s squeamish, but because the bishop has the luck of the devil.”

“And you should know all about that.” Miles laughed. “I’ve never known anyone as glib as you in a tight corner. Why when that gaoler asked us what we were doing—”

Dickon, tired of waiting, squirmed free and toddled into the chamber.

“Here’s my brave little knave.” Miles scooped the child up on to his knee and tweaked his nose.

I nodded to Jack, standing by the hearth with a tankard in his hand. Inwardly trembling, I set my basket on the trestle.

“We had a fine walk to the market, didn’t we, Dickon?” I spoke in matter-of-fact tones. “And we saw Mistress Metcalf, didn’t we?”

“Monks,” said Dickon. He struggled to escape his father’s clutches. “Mama—”

“Yes, we saw the monks—”

“And was there a good crowd in the town today?” Jack fixed his weasel smile on me.

“There was. And plenty of gossip, too.” I emptied my basket. “Elizabeth Metcalf says Bishop Stillington’s been sent to the Tower.” I returned Jack’s smile with deliberate ease.
 

“It’s true enough.” Miles released the gurgling child. “The king grows tetchy with those whose tongues wag carelessly.” He grinned at me. “Take care, wife, you and that gaggle of the duchess’s wenches don’t offend him with your tittle-tattle.”

“Oh, Nan knows how to deal with the king,” said Jack airily. He set down his tankard and sat down, crossing his shapely legs, admiring his violet hose. How I longed to swipe the smirk from his face! “She’d plenty of practice when he came to see Dame Butler in London.”