The Assassin's Wife (50 page)

The spectators laughed, an infectious sound that forced the smiles into my own features and much amused the king.

“Nay, though I’ve been over-fond of pies these recent years!” He clapped his belly, his own mirth mellow as liquid honey. “I was remembering an occasion many years ago—when I was a rash youth somewhat enamoured of a charming lady who lived in Silver Street or thereabouts—I fear I made some foolish promises she misinterpreted. I saw someone very like you in her house—I’ve often wondered what became of the lady and her household.”

“I’m sure she could never have forgotten you, Sire,” I answered boldly, looking him in the eye. “But sometimes it’s best to keep quiet about youthful memories lest those bent on mischief trouble us with needless questions.” I tried to keep the teasing note in my voice.

“You’re wise, Mistress Forrest.” He kissed my hand graciously, his hazel eyes flashing green fire. “I understand you offered my wife some words of wisdom recently.” He laughed seeing me flinch. “Oh, she believes such stuff, Mistress, and takes your advice to heart. Rest assured, you’ll not suffer by it—” He put an arm about my shoulder steering me away from the watchers and stooped to whisper in my ear, his lips brushing my hair. “But such dangerous dealings shouldn’t be pursued further—As you infer so cleverly, sleeping dogs should lie in peace, lest, being disturbed, they rise up to bite us all.”

I stumbled away, conscious of his laughter spilling uproariously as if he’d told a marvellous jest, but I shook like a storm-wracked sapling all the way back to my chamber.
 

“Nan, what are these cards?”

Genevieve and Alice crouched by the oak chest amidst a tumble of garments.
 

“Lady Anne told us to pack after a messenger came to say Prince Edward’s sick. She wants to leave tomorrow—” Alice attempted a confused explanation for the rifled coffer, the scattered clothes, and the discovery of my secret. Her darting eyes avoided mine.

“Can you tell fortunes with them?” Genevieve’s curiosity made her bold. Her eyes sparkled, bright as innocence. “Meg Huddleston said Amy Sadler told her about them and that you—”

“Amy Sadler’s an unscrupulous chatter-box,” I said. I clenched my fists. “She delights in stirring up trouble. I’m surprised Meg listens to her lies.”

“Meg says the wench has a talent for rooting out secrets.” Genevieve cast me a wounded expression. “So she asked Lady Anne if you’d told her fortune—”

So, it had finally come to this. Clever Meg had wheedled the information from the duchess just as I’d suspected. No doubt all the ladies knew.

“They’re just picture cards. An old woman gave me them.” My voice croaked as I trotted out my old excuse. “It’s just a game.”

“But what strange pictures they are—Look at this one of the devil, and this of death—I should have nightmares if I played with these—and what does this one mean?”

Eyes wide, mouth open in pretended horror, Genevieve held the Hanged Man towards me.

“Nan does have nightmares.” Alice pinched Genevieve’s thigh in warning.

“It’s a game,” I pleaded, alarmed by the eagerness in their up-turned faces. Who’d told them about my nightmares? “I showed them to Lady Anne when we were in Dowgate together, and she’s—”

“Never forgotten what you told her.” Alice finished for me. “Meg told us. But what
did
you see for her? Will she really be queen one day?”

“No, no.” I crossed myself as if to stave off ill fortune. “Meg’s mistaken. You mustn’t say such things. It was a foolish game—no more than that—I’m sure you’ve played such games yourselves on holidays—”

“But Lady Anne says you have second sight.” Alice refused to be deflected. “You must read the cards for us, Nan.” Giggling, Genevieve thrust the pack toward me. “Tell me what you see for me.”

I stretched out my hands but the cards spilled like a cascade to the stone floor, their painted images swirling into a pattern which terrified.

“What is it, Nan?” Alice asked.

“The tower—and death—death by water—” Looking up I glimpsed the blaze of their white faces before the chamber filled with beating wings. “Crows,” I whispered, my ears scraped by the harsh crawk-crawk of their calls, “a murder of crows—” and fainted, striking my head against the stone.

When I came round, Alice was pressing a soft, damp cloth to my forehead, and our little serving wench stood holding a basin. “You’ll have a fine bruise, but I don’t think there’ll be a scar,” Alice said. “I expect you’ve some salve of your own making to speed the healing—No, don’t try to get up yet.” Someone laid a palm against my shoulder. “Genevieve has some wine and honey for you to drink.”

Leaning back against the cushions on which they’d propped me, I sipped the warm liquid, conscious of Genevieve kneeling on one side and the little maid’s frightened gaze on the other. Alice’s capable hands dipped the cloth into the basin, blotted the wound again and rinsed away a smear of blood.

“I wrapped the cards for you.” Genevieve bent to pass me the bundle when someone tapped at the door.

The serving wench jumped, almost dropping the basin, but Alice signalled to her to discover our caller.

“The Duchess of Gloucester wants to see you all now.”
 

Swiftly, I stuffed the cards into my bodice and allowed Alice and Genevieve to help me rise.

“Are you sure you’re strong enough to walk?” Genevieve asked.
 

The serving wench stared inquisitively.

“Clear this away, Joyce.” Alice’s command jolted her into action. “We mustn’t keep the duchess waiting.”

Lady Anne’s sumptuous chamber, though clustered with waiting women, seemed still and subdued. Wrapped in an emerald mantle with a furred hood, the duchess brooded by the casement, her pretty cat-face face grave and thoughtful. The sun’s bright glare dazzled, melting the lacy ice patterns on the glass lozenges, shedding its rays across her folded hands and gilding the elaborate furnishings. A qualm of apprehension stabbed me as we joined this silent tableau. How sick was the precious Gloucester prince?

“I’ve arranged for us to leave for Middleham at first light,” she said. Her fingers twisted nervously. “My son’s ailing, and I need to be with him.” A slight catch in her voice betrayed anxiety. “Because His Grace has business to complete in the city, our party will go on ahead while the weather favours us. Have your baggage ready for the men to remove before supper.”
 

Murmuring assent, the ladies turned in a milling crowd.
 

“Nan! Wait! I want to speak to you in private.”

Only a fool could have missed the sudden fever of interest. The pack of women exchanged furtive glances. Some lingered as long as they dared.

“What have you done?” Lady Anne touched a finger to my brow as the door finally closed behind them.
 

“A foolish stumble, my Lady. We’d been ice-skating and I was hurrying back—”

“My boy’s taken another fever.” She interrupted me, her voice trembling toward tears. “I need your help, Nan. You’ve more skill than any physician. Stay by me this night.”

The burden of Lady Anne’s words lay heavy on me, but how could I refuse?

* * * * *

Snuggled together in thick cloaks and draped in furs, our party dozed its way back to the north. The snow was melting. Already spikes of green pushed through the earth. Drowsily, the women murmured of spring and pleasant days upon the moors while the wagons rumbled over rutted tracks, the men cursing the mud that clogged the wheels and the dripping trees soaking their garments. Lady Anne insisted I travel with her in her litter beside Meg Huddleston and Elizabeth Parre. While they twittered like starlings, my own thoughts ran raggedly on unfinished business in the city. Harry would wonder at my broken promise.
 

Chapter Sixty-Three

Middleham Castle

Fleet as a deer, the duchess entered Middleham’s portals. Without stopping to remove her damp cloak, she rushed to the nursery, dragging me behind her like a bond-slave, questions flying from her anxious lips, servants dancing at her heels.
 

“How is he?”
 

“He slept well last night, Your Grace.” The stout Yorkshire-woman, flustered by the sudden interruption, left off lifting blankets from the press to dip a curtsey. “The physician gave him a tincture for the fever. It seems to have settled him.”

“Tell me what you think, Nan.”
 

We leaned over the flushed face lying on the pillow. Conscious of my own boy struggling and calling to me in Emma’s arms, I laid a hand on the prince’s brow.

“He still seems a little feverish, Your Grace. Perhaps I should give him some of my mulberry and honey syrup?”
 

Satisfied, she made a hasty departure, but not before scattering orders among the waiting servants which sent them scrambling in all directions.
 

“Bring me news when the prince wakes,” she called.
 

I hugged Dickon then, listened to his excited prattle and exclaimed over his growth.
 

“Aye, he’s strong as an ox, but it’s been a hard winter for yon lad.” Jane Collins nodded to the Gloucester prince. “Last night were so raw we couldn’t sleep for shaking. My bones ached like toothache.” She grimaced, rubbing her back.

“London’s still thick ice,” I said, holding my tingling hands before the blaze of the nursery fire.
 

“Tha looks pale, after the journey. I’ve brewed a posset that’ll put the colour into thi cheeks. We’ll all take a sup to bring some warmth into us bones.”

She stooped to lift a pot from off the fire and ladled steaming liquid into pewter tankards. “Drink it as hot as you can.”

I clasped my tankard in both hands letting the steam bathe my face. A sour smell of wine and pungent herbs made me gag. Startled, Emma lifted her head from the rim of her own cup, her lips ruby with moisture and Mistress Collins cried out.

“What is it, lass?”

I must have fainted. When I opened my eyes again she was chafing my hands and Emma knelt, mopping up spilled wine. Their voices rang hollow and distant—full of questions.

“Tha’s a nasty bruise on thi forehead. What hast tha been doing?”

The frantic beating of wings still bruised my ears. As I raised my tankard a sudden shocking premonition overwhelmed me like a great cacophonous swoop of black birds. Somewhere in the Tower a murder was being committed. But it wasn’t a murder by water as I’d told Genevieve and Alice. It was far more sinister, and one of the assassins was my own husband.

“Here’s a health to your Lordship!” A mocking voice called from far away. He heard the clang and skitter of a fallen goblet.

Licking the last, sweet drops from his lips, he tried to turn, but someone seized his arms and shoulders in a forceful, compelling grip. Suddenly, sickeningly, his world turned upside-down. He glimpsed red-spattered rushes and a blur of stone. Struggling, he cried out, but a heavy hand thrust into his hair and pressed him downward.
 

A glow of golden liquid rose to meet him. In its swirling depths he saw his own reflection, a white, staring face that seemed to swim in blood. Behind this awful image, two shadowy shapes loomed huge and menacing. He heard the rich echo of male laughter. The flowery scent of wine mingled with the stench of sweat and fear.

“Grab his legs, John,” a deeper voice said. “He’s changed his mind.” The northern vowels confounded him as he plunged into the darkness.

Just before the liquid slapped against his face he drew a breath to shriek. But the darkness swallowed him whole. His hapless fingers scrabbled against the wood, like the claws of a cornered rat. His legs seemed caught, as in a trap. Twist and writhe as he might, he couldn’t free them.

Again and again he swallowed cloying sweetness as if he sought to drain the barrel dry. At last his throat rebelled. He might have spewed had he found air, but a great light seared his eyeballs. The roar in his ears stilled as his lungs burst in an explosion of pain. Down, down he dived, wine-wrapped and drifting, and somewhere in his fading mind called “Mama!”