The Assassin's Wife (66 page)

“And do you believe him?”

He hung his head.

“He said Bishop Stillington put you in the prison at Pontefract for being a witch.”

The tremulous timbre of his voice grieved me.

“Indeed I was at Pontefract.” I lifted his chin so I could look into his troubled face. “I went to answer some questions about King Edward, not about being a witch.”

And may God forgive me for the lie
, I thought.

“Now, does your Mama look like a witch?” asked Mistress Mercer.

Uncertain, Dickon looked up at her. When he turned back to me, I pulled a horrible face to make him laugh.

“Yes!” He shrieked, pretending to be frightened. I scooped him in my arms and tickled him then until he couldn’t speak for giggles. While he laughed, I cursed Jack Green. What had that villain intended for my son?

I thought of Miles then, and leaving Dickon with Mistress Mercer, I carried a platter of bread and meat upstairs to the little attic room. I found him crouched on a stool with his head in his hands as if lost in a private nightmare.

Closing the door, I realised how dreadful silence saturated that room, separating us entirely from the busy shop below. Grey-faced but sober, Miles looked up and in my belly a knot of terror tautened.

“Is it true?” As if someone tightened a cord about my throat, my voice constricted.

The empty brilliance of his eyes frightened me but I refused to read its message, pleading instead.

“The Wydeville boys did go north to train as knights, didn’t they, Miles?”

He rose then and laughed, an ugly, mocking sound that set my teeth on edge.

Hurling down the platter, I flew at him, beating my fists against his chest, clawing for his face. “Where are they, Miles? What did you do to them?”

Seizing my wrists, he held me off, his face granite-hard.
 

“The boys are dead.”

As if he’d punched me in the belly, I crumpled.

Outside in the street the ordinary sounds—the uneven rolling wheels of a cart, the steady clop of hooves—continued inexorably.
 

“Surely you didn’t believe those lies?” He stooped to draw me to my feet and I swayed, trembling in his arms. “You of all people?” Our eyes linked cruelly. “Of course you knew. Didn’t you warn me often enough to abandon Gloucester?”
 

Mute with horror, I listened to the increasing bitterness in his voice, the awful self-mockery.

“He’s made me wealthy, Nan. But just as you predicted, the coins are the price of my damnation. They hang like weights about my neck. But they can’t buy back my soul, can they?”
 

He flinched suddenly, his eye caught by something just beyond my vision. The expression on his face terrified. Turning, I glimpsed a flash of colour, an elusive movement. Imperceptibly a freezing chill invaded the airless chamber. Gooseflesh rose on my arms.
 

“I’d never killed a child—” An unsteady note entered his voice, driving shivers through me. “The dead don’t rest, Nan.” He laughed again. “But you’ve always known that, haven’t you?” He turned the full horror of his shockingly blue eyes upon me. “He follows after me now, the little knave. Deighton’s a fiend. He did it without a quiver. It’s one thing to kill a man but—Now I see them everywhere. Even when I try to close my eyes they’re there.” Again the awful laughter set me shaking. “Your precious cousins should tear me limb from limb for what I’ve done.”
 

Releasing me, he sank heavily on the stool as if exhausted and I crouched on the edge of the bed, my eyes drawn to Miles’ ragged nails, crusted with earth or blood. Those hands had caressed me, carried Dickon—I didn’t want to think what else they’d done.
 

A profound silence settled over us.
 

At some point, Dickon slipped into the room and climbed into my lap. Leaning his head against my breast, he fixed his gaze on his father’s brooding face. Something in the solemnity of our stillness affected him deeply. He didn’t speak, but the warmth of his body pressed close to mine comforted.

“Ask Jack Green if you want the truth of it,” said Miles suddenly looking up. I ached at the sight of his wasted beauty—his face all angles and umber shadows. “The little lads were no trouble. The youngest was no older than our own boy—such a merry little knave—” The catch in his voice wounded me worse than a blade. “He used to sing and tell such tales—Aye, and he’d dance for us too. He was so bold, so full of life—he climbed right up on to the parapet once. I carried him down on my shoulders—” Again that piteous catch in his voice. “The elder was sick. Too sick to care for anything in the end, God rest him.” His voice hardened. “But they were a trouble to the king—Jack said they must be
eliminated
—and Deighton urged me to it. He’s an evil piece of villainy—but when Jack threatened me with Dickon’s life what could I do? ‘Finish the business,’ he said, ‘and in return I’ll bring your boy to you. Deighton can’t manage it on his own. The Wydeville brats or your boy—which is it to be?’ But he didn’t keep his word—Even though I damned myself, he kept my boy—Not till the day before you came to Lombard Street, did I have one glimpse of him and then—” The bitter laughter stuttered into dry, wrenching sobs that shook his frame. I sat immobile, unable to offer any solace.
 

How had I believed I could save those children? I kissed Dickon’s soft curls savouring the animal warmth of his body, the living weight of him—grateful for this at least.

Chapter Eighty-Three

August burned with rumour and intrigue. The stinking city streets seethed with treachery as more and more people fled to join the Tudor. The ferment of rebellion flavoured the air.

In Bread Street, Miles withdrew more and more into a shadowy half-existence that appalled everyone. Steeped in silent agony, he shivered by the hearth as if with ague or refused to quit the stifling little room so kindly assigned to us. His frame grew skeletal as if some demon deep inside gnawed at his flesh, reminding me of a dreadful tale I’d once read in the library at Norwich of some ancient Greek whose liver was daily torn from his body as a punishment from the gods.

No one in the house spoke of our intentions. Instead they skirted round the subject which haunted us most. The disappearance of King Edward’s sons peppered common talk in the city now the Tudor threatened the kingdom. Though the Mercers must have heard these awful speculations, they never questioned me. I suppose my silence provided answer enough.

They didn’t urge us to leave either, although they must have desired it more than anything else that summer. Instead, Harry trained Dickon to make bread deliveries and sent the boy upon various errands. He came back from these excursions with cheeks glowing like berries on the hawthorn hedge, full of the marvellous things he’d seen, the tall buildings, the tottering houses, the gloomy churches with their twisted gargoyles, and the creaking, painted signs above the shops—poignant reminders of my own childhood wanderings. But when he told me he’d twice seen Jack Green in the Chepe, I shook as if with fever. Why did this knave continue to spy on us? I began to imagine him lurking at every street corner. For three days I daren’t go out the door.

* * * * *

“We can’t stay here.”

We’d hidden in Bread Street over two weeks.
 

A stifling dawn hauled me from bed. Hot daggers of sunlight gouged the glistering lapis of the horizon. Harry stooped by the open door of the bakery loading his deliveries into baskets. In the bake-house Will sang over his work.
 

“Where would you go?” Harry’s bleak face confronted me.

“Would you shelter an assassin under your roof? No, don’t be kind to me—” I brushed aside the friendly hand, clenching my jaw against tears. “It’s what he is—though, God forgive me, I still love him. If you’d known him as I—” My voice cracked. “But I can’t ask any more of you—” I bit my lip, swallowed grief, and fisted my hands.
 

Already heat shimmered off the cobbles. An acrid stench rose from the gutters. My stomach heaved. “We can’t encroach on your charity any longer. Besides, our presence places you in danger. We must leave London.”

His attempts to persuade me otherwise faltered into mere courtesy. I swept them aside as easily as dust. Poor Harry, I caught him off guard and he could think of no excuses.

“Let me organise something.” He squeezed my hands, his honest face gleaming with sweat. “I’ll speak to mother. Do you remember me mentioning Meg’s sister, Judith, in Lincolnshire? I’m sure she’d take you in.”

“No, he’s sick. I can smell it off him. It would be wrong. Besides, my reputation as a witch is just as dangerous.” I watched Harry flinch at the word, but before he could speak I stopped him. “Just get me some horses. We’ll leave tomorrow.”

“He’ll never ride.” Harry’s face glimmered ashen with shock. Firmly, he set his hands on my shoulders. His eyes shone well-deep. “He’ll never get to Lincolnshire, Nan. He’s far too sick. We must take him to St Martin-le-Grand. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“We must take your father to the monks,” I told a frightened Dickon next morning. “He’s very, very sick and needs their help. Harry’s gone to hire us a cart.”

When he saw the great heap of our possessions, the carter scowled.
 

“Is it the plague?” he asked, watching Harry lead Miles from the bake-house. He squinted at me, narrowing his eyes against the sun’s glare. Then he crossed himself.

“It’s not plague,” Harry answered boldly. “My cousin’s been sick of the sweat. Here, we’ve money enough to pay you for your pains—”

The surly fellow snatched the coins greedily, although his aversion prevented him helping Harry lift Miles into the cart.

“Go back to the bakery, Harry.”

He hesitated by the horse’s head, his kindly face flushed, clearly ill at ease. “Are you sure you can manage on your own?”

“If you can find us a place with Judith, I’ll be more than grateful,” I answered. Resolutely, I climbed into the cart.

“We’ll speak tomorrow.”

Heartsick, I watched Harry’s figure grow small and distant as the horse clopped away.

Our carter drove as one who grudged assistance, nor did he help to unload our bundles when we reached the Sanctuary. For a few groats some ragged boys offered to carry our baggage, although I fear several items were pilfered in their handling. Between us, Dickon and I managed to guide Miles into the great church. As we entered, the bells tolled. I felt a sense of having done all this before, as if my whole life had led me to this one moment.

The good Brothers welcomed us with gentle courtesy. They asked no questions. They suggested cures, but didn’t speak of miracles. Soothing herbal possets comforted every pain. Prayers pacified the troubled mind. They offered a sanctuary for all—rich or poor, good or ill.

I sent Dickon to scour the market for quinces since his father had a mind to them. I’d an old recipe from Mistress Mercer for a quince jelly I might make. Better the boy should run in the fresh air in the bright day than linger by a sickbed in a darkened chamber.

A young monk with apple cheeks tended Miles. As soon as I heard the soft cadence of his speech, Brother Brian came to mind. But there the resemblance ended. Brother Aidan’s blue eyes, clear as rain-washed sky, held nothing of Brother Brian’s sorrow in them.

“May we go back by the market?” Dickon tugged at my hand, having returned without quinces. “There are none to be had at this season,” he told Brother Aiden. “But there’s a tumbler there today...” His voice grew breathless with excitement. “And there’s a troupe of Egyptians. One of them eats fire—”

“Jack!” Miles interrupted unexpectedly. He sat up, eyes blazing. “Jack! What have you done with my boy?”

Terrified, Dickon shrank from the bed.

Brother Aiden lured him away. “Help me make a special posset for your father.”

They slipped aside like phantoms.

The vivid eyes locked on some unseen presence. Miles hadn’t spoken in days—
 

“What are you doing up here? You might have fallen.” He shook his head, his lips drawn back in a ghastly smile. “You’re all questions, lad.”

Stroking his wild, black hair, I knelt to calm him. Gently, I pressed him back to lie down on the pallet, grieved by the weakness of his emaciated body. Once he had carried me in his arms as easily as lifting a babe. Now no strength remained in him. I leaned over to kiss his brow—what other comfort had I to offer? But his eyes gazed far beyond me.

Something like a shadow settled at my back. The old, familiar tingling sensation crawled through my limbs. In their sconces the candles shivered, dwindled into tiny, bluish fingers of flame. A silence gathered, waited expectantly.

“They lie in secret. We hid them beneath the stairs.”

“Miles?” I turned his face toward me, took his cold hand in mine. “What is it you want to tell me?”

“The boy— in Flanders—”

“The princes? The Wydeville boys?” I leaned close, his breath whispering across my face.