The Assassin's Wife (46 page)

Suddenly, raindrops struck me. Huge, black, clouds swelled overhead.
How apt
, I thought, as I turned inside. Just as Jack Green turns up unexpectedly, so the weather changes. Other storms threatened our peace now. I must warn Miles about Jack Green. And I must speak to Brother Brian immediately.

* * * * *

“Mistress Forrest.”
 

The curvaceous little wench on the stairs smiled up at me.

“Amy!”

“My aunt secured me a place at Middleham,” she answered. The impertinent gleam in her eyes made my heart leap. “It’s good to see old friends again. I’d hoped to be a nursery maid, but for now I must be content with the dairy.” She paused to award me a wide smile of feigned admiration. “They tell me you have the duchess’s special favour.”

“Lady Anne’s generous.” I brushed aside the sly insinuation. “She approves my skill with herbs—”

“Your skills are still spoken of at Barnard,” the wench replied. The smile remained pinned to her generous mouth. “But I’m sent to bring you to the duchess. She attends you in her bower-chamber.”

As I picked up my skirts to run up the steps she touched me on the arm.

“I hope we may swiftly resume our acquaintance, Mistress Forrest,” she said.
 

* * * * *

Bathed in candle-light, the duchess sat by her chessboard. She hummed under her breath, her hand hovering over an ivory pawn.

“You sent for me, Your Grace?”

She glanced up, eyes narrowed. “Would you like to play?”

I shook my head. “I’ve no skill in such games.”
 

She gestured into the shadows. Two ladies rose like spectres and melted away.

“Come sit by me, Nan. I’m anxious to have your opinion on a delicate matter, knowing I can rely upon your loyalty.”

Obediently I sat, my eyes drawn to the intricacies of the game while my mind still drummed with the shock of Amy’s arrival.
 

“You’ve doubtless heard about my lord’s brother?”

“Miles told me he’d been imprisoned, Your Grace.”

She studied me a few moments, sitting so still in the flickering light I was minded of the way a cat will watch a hapless mouse which has wandered into its territory.

“A prophecy tells how G will one day rule the kingdom.” Her eyes glowed, hard and unblinking. “The Duke of Clarence is named George.” It seemed a matter-of-fact statement, but I knew better. She reached a delicate hand across the chess-board to pick up the queen. Examining the piece carefully as if searching for something in its design, she spoke again, her words coldly imperious. “You’ve no skill with games, you say, but you have other skills.” Her little, pointed tongue flicked across her lips. The green eyes blazed. “I want you to use your
special skill
to tell me if this prophecy is true.”

“My lady,” I answered, my tongue stiff in my mouth. “I’m afraid to use such tricks. A woman was arrested in Sheriff Hutton for telling fortunes last May.”

“Tricks? I never heard you call it that before. Indeed, I remember at Dowgate how the wenches dismissed the idea of chicanery because your prophecies proved so accurate.”
 

I fumed against such keen intelligence, noting how cleverly she’d chosen to ignore my mention of the woman arrested for sorcery. I hadn’t dared take the cards from their hiding-place since. Now, with Amy Sadler’s sly implications fresh in mind, the reality of discovery preyed upon me.
 

“Conjuring’s against the law. The church condemns those who practice it. How can I take such a foolish risk?”

Smiling, though her eyes gleamed murderous, she held up her hand so the little queen thrust right into my face. “I know you can do it,” she said. “And I’ve some authority myself. Don’t you trust my protection, Nan?” Her voice softened. “No one need know.” A sly gleam lit the feline features. “Besides you and I are old in secrets, are we not?”

In the hearth, dancing flames mocked me with their pointing fingers. The smell of burning made me sweat. I thought of the foreign woman in prison.
Please let it not be Mara,
I prayed.

“It’s dangerous to meddle with fortune-telling. Even noble ladies are subject to the church’s commands. No one’s safe from the fire.”
 

“Trust me.” Her whisper became a serpent’s hiss.
 

I bowed my head, wondering how I might extricate myself from this latest intrigue, Brother Brian’s troubled smile vivid in my mind.

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Wild rumours about Clarence enlivened a dank, dismal November.
 

“He’s plotting with the French.” Genevieve murmured nonsense among the little huddle of maids in the bower-chamber. “They’re going to help King Henry’s old queen to invade England.”

“But why would Queen Margaret want to come back here?” Meg Huddleston flashed me an indiscreet glance, tossing back her head with exasperation. “Her husband and son are dead. I don’t know who told you—”

“Anyway Clarence is in the Tower,” interrupted Grace, eyes still on her book. “He can’t plan an invasion from there, can he?”

“But that little wench, Amy Sadler, said she heard Master Metcalf discussing it with our Duke.” Peevishly Genevieve threw down her sewing.
 

“Amy Sadler’s a mischievous inventor of spurious gossip,” said Meg. She turned to me. “Nan knows her of old, don’t you?” I smarted under her artful words. “Do you know what the servants are saying about Clarence, Nan? I’m sure you must have heard something on your frequent visits to the nursery.”

“Mistress Collins hates gossip,” I answered. My cheeks reddened with suppressed rage.
 

“Well, I’m sure Lady Anne will be glad her brother-in-law’s incarcerated after the way he –”
 

“Treated her so unkindly?” Lady Anne’s sudden arrival silenced us and left Meg flushing with discomfort. “I must send you to the nursery at once, Nan,” she said. “My son’s complaining of a headache. No one else has your healing touch.”
 

I rose under the deliberate approval of her smile.
 

“Now, Genevieve, what gossip have you to amuse us?” she asked pointedly, as I quit the chamber.

* * * * *

Dining in the great hall amidst choking smoke from the wayward fire, the evening’s conversation buzzed with news. Clarence had slandered Edward’s birth, criticised his government and made outrageous accusations against the queen.
 

Old Walt, pompous with too much ale, spoke up a touch too loud. “He’s allus been trouble. It’s time the king put an end to all traitors, brother or no brother. Leniency is weakness.” He raised a belligerent arm. “A king mun punish if he means to have respect.”

Gripped by this vitriolic outburst, the other diners froze.

“The queen’ll see Clarence punished.” Jane Collins shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her expression severe. “He’ll happen find no mercy in that wench.”

Old Walt threw her a scowl. “Aye, but it’s not for wenches to rule,” he said caustically. “It’s a man’s business. And the king’ll happen summon Parliament to put Clarence on trial in a week or two.” With a grim smirk of satisfaction, the curmudgeon surveyed his audience. “Then we’ll see justice done.”

Someone dropped a knife, breaking the tension.

“Not at Christmas.” Jane muttered just loud enough for all to hear.

“Nor before the royal wedding,” added Tom Metcalf, with quiet amusement. He quickly engaged the company. “The king won’t miss the opportunity to see his youngest son claim the Mowbray inheritance. He plans a huge affair to celebrate this event, and even Clarence won’t spoil his pleasure in it. I have this from our duke himself!”

More than willing to be distracted from Walt’s harangue I listened to Tom Metcalf’s garrulous wife chattering of this royal marriage set to take place in the new year.

“It’ll be a glorious occasion.” Plump Elizabeth Metcalf’s eyes sparkled. “I’d love to see it.”

“And so should I.” A plan began to form in my mind. “I went to Westminster once. The king keeps a magnificent court there.”

“Well I never! Is it true all the chambers are hung with cloth of gold?”
 

Even as I recounted the magnificence of the royal palace I resolved to write to Harry and arrange to meet him in London. Somehow I must persuade Lady Anne to take me with her to her nephew’s wedding.
 

* * * * *

Through the last week of the month the road to Jervaulx lay bleak with frost.

Though Miles advised against the journey I pleaded to see Brother Brian before winter marooned him across the moorland until the spring thaw.
 

How desolate and forbidding the abbey appeared against the iron-grey sky. Sheep huddled in the fields, the skirling cry of curlews filled the air with lamentation, and a biting wind whined amongst the granite hills. I wondered how the monks could bear such bitter solitude.

At the guest-house, the young novice monk with the pale hair awaited me.

“Brother Brian’s in the infirmary,” he said, flushing crimson. “I’m to take you there.”
 

Introducing himself as Edwin, he explained he was a native of the county sent by his family to further his education. Like Alan Palmer, he seemed a shy, sensitive youth.

“Come in, come in,” called Brother Brian. He stooped before the hearth, his face reddened by steam, ladling liquid into a bowl. “I’m after helping Brother Silas with his infusion for the winter cough. Several of the brothers have taken sick with it already. Bring Mistress Forrest a stool, Edwin, so she can sit by the fire.”

I settled close to the heat watching Brother Brian pour hot liquid into an earthen cup. Smiling at my hesitancy he handed it to me. “Taste this. It’ll warm you and chase away any ill-humours hanging about the place. Is it sweet enough?”

Sipping the brew I marvelled at its delicious honey flavour.

“Our own bees,” nodded the priest.

“And are there cloves in it, too?”
 

“And ginger and nutmeg. It’s one of Silas’ own recipes.”

“Did someone mention me?”

An elderly monk carrying a basket of russet apples appeared in the doorway. In spite of his advanced years, a wiry, sprightly quality hung about him and an impish expression lit his rheumy eyes.

“Brother Silas, this is Mistress Forrest.” Brother Brian turned to introduce me. “I mentioned her proposed visit if you remember. The guest-house’s a draughty old place at the best of times and Edwin tells me there’s no fire lit—”
 

“No matter—I’ve a guest myself as you see.”
 

A lithe figure I knew well slipped into the chamber.

“Master Green’s something of a scholar. He’s recently joined the Duke of Gloucester’s entourage and expressed a wish to see our library. He tells me he’s interested in the making of our herbal remedies. The Abbot’s granted him permission to further his studies among us.”

Smiling broadly, Jack Green leaned nonchalantly against the fireplace, arms folded across his chest, a picture of calculated insolence.
 

“What an unexpected pleasure to meet you here, Mistress Forrest.” His glib words and over-confident posturing made me want to slap his face.
 

“I’d no idea you were such a scholar,” I answered. Both Brother Brian and Brother Silas flinched at my derisive tone but Jack laughed although his eyes remained wintry. “Jack and I are old companions,” I explained to the elderly monk with the basket. “He and I worked together in the kitchens of a fine house in London—”

“Indeed.” Brother Silas darted a meaningful glance at Brother Brian.

“I’m thinking Mistress Forrest and I might be better in the guest-house after all,” Brother Brian said, gathering up his cloak. “Edwin will make up the fire. And then you can show Master Green the workings of the infirmary without interruption.”

Edwin, observing all from a nook by the huge press, sprang to his feet. I noted how Jack Green’s lip curled as the delicate youth hurried to the door.
 

“Thank you, Brian.” Brother Silas turned his astute gaze upon me. “I’m glad to make your acquaintance, Mistress Forrest.”

I felt the weight of Jack Green’s ill-concealed animosity as we took our leave.

“That young man,” said Brother Brian, as we shivered before a meagre, smoking fire, “is the source of much unease, I fear.”

“He’s Stillington’s spy. Already he’s made threats against me, but I never thought to see him here at Jervaulx. Before he alerts his master of my whereabouts there’s something I must do—”

“Concerning the children in the Tower?”

Looking into the troubled depths of his blue eyes I seized his hands in mine. “I must warn their mother before it’s too late. And I’ve found a way at last. Pray for me.”