The Assassin's Wife (58 page)

“I’d no idea the queen had gone into Sanctuary,” I said, astounded. “Nor that her brother was being held—”

Elizabeth’s face bloated with excitement. “Didn’t you know Lord Rivers is a prisoner at Sheriff Hutton? Aye,
and
that son of hers from her first marriage.”

“But what have they done?” I asked, unnerved. “No one’s told me anything of these events—not even Amy Sadler.”

“You’ll have to ask Rob. I don’t understand the half of it. There’s been that much coming and going this past month my head’s fair mazzled with it all.”

Being much favoured by the duke, the Metcalfs kept a comfortable house and I couldn’t help admiring the luxury of its furnishings. The polished wood-panelled walls followed the latest fashion and must have cost a great deal. Wondrous embroidered cushions decorated the settle. One of them took my eye in particular— the colour of a kingfisher, it depicted a scene of damsels playing lutes.

“I saw a fine arras with that picture on it at the market in York.” Elizabeth noticed my interest. “Tom wouldn’t buy it me. He haggled with the fellow over a few angels, but neither would give in.” She plumped down evidently glad to rest her ponderous bulk. “A thrifty husband’s a blessing—” She groaned, easing her great hams upon the settle. “But there’s thrifty and there’s mean.” She eased off her plum-coloured leather shoes. Stretching lumpy feet towards the hearth, she wiggled her misshapen toes and sighed with pleasure. “That’s better.” She leaned back. “Polly!” she called loudly. “Rob must be in the kitchen again—eating us out of house and home.”

The little servant girl promptly appeared with a tray laden with goblets of sweet wine and a dish of comfits.

“Tell Master Rob Mistress Forrest’s here.” Elizabeth Metcalf gulped wine thirstily. “And fetch another goblet and a jug of this wine.”

Polly nodded, pushing escaping corn-coloured hair under her cap.

“Sit down, sit down.” Elizabeth Metcalf patted the cushions. “How’s that boy of yours? Tom says he’ll make a fine horseman. I hear he’s very friendly with the duke’s lad. Now there’s a delicate piece of mischief.” She rattled on at a great pace so I’d neither time nor need to answer. I sipped the wine, watching her cram comfits into her mouth by the dozen, and all this without pausing in her speech.
 

“Now, mother.” Brawny, good-natured Rob entered the room smelling of leather and horse-flesh. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Mistress Forrest,” he nodded, flushing to the roots of his pale hair.

Behind him Polly waited until he settled beside the hearth, then scuttled to set a goblet and jug before him.

“Nay, Polly,” He gestured at these items, “I’ll not want this. Bring me some ale. This is ladies’ liquor.” He grinned, his open, honest face suddenly reminding me of Harry. “Mother likes to impress her guests but she won’t stop me from drinking good strong ale.” He sprawled back in his seat, long, muscular legs jutting into the hearth.

“Leave the jug, Polly.” Mistress Metcalf shook her head at Rob. “Some of us have refined tastes.” She poured herself another measure and offered me the jug, but I’d no taste for such sweet stuff. “Well, Rob, are you going to sit there all day with your knees in the fire place or are you going to tell Mistress Forrest her message?”

Rob blushed with embarrassment, shuffling his legs awkwardly. “I met Master Forrest at Baynard’s Castle—”

“Baynard’s Castle? Isn’t he in Redcross Street?”

“Nay,” Rob drew a package from his sleeve. “He’s lodging at Baynard’s Castle alongside the rest of the duke’s men. He won’t be home for yet a while. There’s been a change of plan about the coronation. He sent thee this as a token of his warmest affection.”

As I unwrapped the contents, he coughed and cleared his throat. Awkwardly, he muttered something about Miles promising to bring Dickon something from London. A smoky, crystal tear-drop hung from a delicate silver chain in a web of filigree. At its milky heart lurked a faint wash of blue.

“To match your eyes, he said.” Rob’s tone clearly suggested embarrassment. He avoided looking at me.

Beneath this fragile item lay a bundle of bright ribbons, green, topaz, rose and aquamarine.

“That’s a pretty piece.” Elizabeth Metcalf reached out a plump finger to lift the links of the chain so the jewel winked in the light. She smiled knowingly. “A lover’s keepsake, eh?”

“I’d rather have him home, pretty as it is.”

Elizabeth wheezed with the effort of pouring more wine. “What’s become of the Wydeville prince?”

“Lodged in the royal apartments in the Tower as tradition demands.” Rob looked thoughtful, hands resting on his boot-tops. I noticed his badly bitten nails. “From what I saw as he rode into London, I’d say he resembles his mother. But I hear he’s given to melancholy—not haughty like her.”

“Well-a-day, the poor child’s every reason to be melancholy with his father dead and all the burdens of kingship laid upon his shoulders.”
 

“Nay, mother, he’s his uncle and other barons to help him with matters of state.” Rob patted her swollen hand. “But there’s a lot of talk.” He gnawed on his finger nails while she fumed for more details.

“What sort of talk? By Saint Peter, Rob, thou’rt a poor story-teller and no mistake. Can’t tha see Mistress Forrest is anxious for all the news?”

Rob blushed again, grinning sheepishly. “Well, folk reckon our Duke’s getting mighty powerful. He’s gathered supporters including Lord Howard and Harry Buckingham. They say he’s determined the Wydevilles’ll have no part in running the country. In fact, some folk are of a mind Gloucester means to take the crown for himself.”

“What!” Elizabeth Metcalf sat up so suddenly, drops of wine flew from her goblet on to her worsted kirtle. “Hast tha lost thy reason?” She squawked and brushed the liquid off with a furious hand. “How can the duke be king when King Edward’s sons are alive?”

“I’m only telling you what folk say,” said Rob, dogged as an old ox. “You asked me what was happening in the city. Some say Gloucester works only for the good of the young prince, but I’m sure our duke has his eyes on his own advancement.”

I sat rigid, too stunned to speak. It was the first time I’d heard Gloucester’s motives aired publicly. Perhaps more suspected the duke of calumny than I’d realised.
 

“Are you going back to London, Rob?”

“Aye, the duke commanded me to summon more troops.”

“Troops?” echoed his mother, looking bewildered.

“He fears rebellion from the Wydeville faction. Lady Anne counselled him to take his northern troops.”

So, I thought, my suspicions were right. Lady Anne followed the current situation. “Will you take some messages for me?”
 

“Aye, I’ll be gone within the week. Don’t look so worried, mother, I’d rather follow after Gloucester wherever he leads, than see the Wydevilles lording it over us ever more. Father shares my views. The Metcalfs have allus kept faith.”

Chapter Seventy-Three

In the blackest part of the night, I woke lathered in sweat. Someone whispered my name. Senses heightened and alert, I lay taut, ears straining for the slightest sound. Something lingered in the shadows. My flesh crawled.

“Who’s there?”

A faint smell of ink and dust wafted through that thick darkness; the merest sigh of cloth rustled over stone.
 

Brother Brian.

No answer came. But gradually the strange tension eased as if an unseen spectre had melted away like fog.

Slipping on a woollen robe, I tiptoed through the unfamiliar landscape of the midnight bed-chamber. From the little truckle bed Dickon’s breathing continued uninterrupted. My hand found the door and I leaned against the wood inhaling its ancient musty scent. The reluctant iron lock grated. Beyond the opening, a darker chasm yawned. Wary as a blind beggar in a crowd, I groped into it.

Stumbling against a stool, I stifled a cry of pain. I nudged open the shutters, but no welcome glow of moonlight lit the chamber. Forced to find taper and flint—a feat accomplished with much difficulty and hard breathing—I finally banished the shadows. The feeble candle revealed the commonplace objects of our daily round. Gathering courage I fetched a shallow bowl in which I’d once collected acorns and filled it with water from the ewer by the hearth. Crouching in the soft halo of light, remembering how Mara made me gaze into the cloudy depths of a crystal, I focused my eyes on the shimmer of liquid. Gradually my vision swam beyond the surface, carrying me into pulsing obscurity where figures moved so fast and indistinct I couldn’t even snatch at their purpose. I immersed myself in silence.

A white-clad figure turned, revealing Brother Brian’s gaunt, ascetic face lit by a radiance I’d never seen before. He held his hands as if in supplication and I was filled with such an overwhelming sense of love, tears stung my eyes.

“There’s nothing to forgive,” I whispered.

His features dissolved and in their place another hooded head appeared. A younger, softer face materialised. The eyes widened, their dark centre rimmed with viridian that faded into palest brown, the colour of a sky-lark’s wing. From a sleeve of bone-bleached linen, tapering fingers held out a roll of vellum—

A sword sliced through the air in a great arc, scattering bloody drops followed by a macabre dull thud. A crowd jeered. A woman’s bare feet tripped over cobbles, the hem of a velvet kirtle dragging through filth. Transported to a richly decorated chamber with wondrous windows of stained glass depicting the lilies of France and walls where painted birds flew on fields of gold and vermilion, a boy’s laughter trilled like harp-song.
 
Across a tiled floor decorated with leopards and white harts leaping in regal splendour, a sprightly child executed a lively dance, his hair a golden nimbus around his merry face. I knew him instantly. A distant bell tolled. Then my Lady appeared dressed in purple velvet. A great fanfare of trumpets blasted my ear-drums with such a cacophony of sound I looked up—
 

Dickon stood in the doorway.

“How long have you been there?” I hustled him into the bed-chamber. “It’s not day yet. Climb up into mama’s bed and see if you can go back to sleep.”

Snuggled in the downy heat of the blankets he whispered drowsily. “What were you doing, mama, kneeling on the floor?”

“Thinking and saying a prayer for your father.”

The ease of this lie filled me with shame. I’d become a practised liar. The visions stormed and replayed in my head until a streak of pale sky pierced the dark. Since Pontefract, Miles had forbidden me to go to Jervaulx. Whenever I mentioned Brother Brian people shuffled uncomfortably. But I knew now he must be dead. He’d called to me out of that inky water. Mara told me the dead returned of their own volition but never before had I sought so willingly to unravel the secrets of the future. I knew it wouldn’t be the last time I’d use the scrying bowl.
 

* * * * *

The duchess summoned me early to her bed-chamber that day.
 

A bird-twitter of excited female voices spilled into the passage. Curious, I sidled through the crack in the doorway and saw a tumult of figures milling about at the other end of the chamber.
 

“Your Grace—”

My greeting turned them and the chattering jangle fell silent. One by one the elegant ladies in their fine brocade gowns lifted their heads. As they dropped back, I saw the great, carved bed with its silken canopy and blue, embroidered curtains heaped with an array of garments of every hue like a cloth merchant’s stall.

“Here,” said Lady Anne. She flicked a jewelled hand.
 

I moved to join her at the bedside, baffled by this display. Impulsively, she snatched up a length of cloth-of-gold. “Take this.”

“It’s beautiful, Your Grace.” I stood admiring the shimmer of its silken fall while she tossed aside a growing pile of garments. “But I couldn’t wear—”

“Take it,” she said impatiently. Her eyes flashed green sparks. “In memory of the coronation!” She laughed, two knots of hectic colour blooming in her cheeks. “Oh Nan, if only you could be there!”
 

She seized my wrists with quivering hands. The sensation struck me as something akin to the intensity before a storm. Her fingers felt dry and feverish. “My Lord wants me join him in London.” Her eyes sparkled. “I’m packing.” She indicated the pile of clothing with a wide flourish, the aquamarine silk of her sleeve rippling like water. “We’re choosing only my most elegant clothes, for the London fashions are reputed to be exquisite. But first I must have some private speech with you.” Glancing over her shoulder as she drew me away, she addressed the scattered ladies. “Katherine, take charge. Lay aside only the finest items. I’ll have others made in London.”

She led me into the solar where the sun streamed through the windows, casting claret and blue lozenges upon the furnishings. Two older ladies seated on the long bench with their tapestry work, stilled a maid’s reading.