The Assassin's Wife (68 page)

“He loves to watch the tradesmen at their work or the boats sail up and down the river. He’s a powerful asset to me with the deliveries.” Harry’s words soothed my misgivings. “He’s too quick-witted to waste his time on soldiering. Mark my words, Nan, he’ll prove something better when he’s grown. And for all his talk, he loves London well enough.”
 

The next morning Dickon took me into the city.

“Look! He pointed at windows full of Flemish tapestries, shelves of silver necklaces, fine swords and daggers etched with patterns, cunningly carved wooden objects, bowls of sparkling Venetian glass, and costly ornaments cut from bleached bone. “I know all the best places to buy now.”

Proudly, he led me through the streets, greeting acquaintances and doffing his cap at stout matrons.

Outside the cutler’s shop we paused to speak to Maud Attemore, surrounded by a rowdy assortment of raucous wenches, clucking matrons, and disreputable fellows eager to jeer at her tales. Thrusting them all aside, the buxom gossip in the patterned ochre gown and embroidered, velvet cap, muttered to me in an undertone, her bold face stricken.

“Best keep your name a secret. There’s a wicked rumour those Wydeville boys were killed by some knave named Forrest. You should get away from London as soon as you can.” She kissed my cheek, squeezed me in a hug, and pressed several fat pennies into Dickon’s palm.
 

Before I could respond, a portly matron with bright cheeks pushed in front of me, declaring, “Now, Maud, you old mischief-maker, what’s this about that wanton wench in Littlewood Street? I heard she—”

Dickon caught my arm. “What’s wrong, Mama?”
 

“Take me back to Bread Street, Dickon,” I said, my attention caught by a shadowy figure sneaking apart from the loiterers and disappearing among a web of alleyways. “It’s not safe here.”
 

Without Anne Neville’s protection I realised I stood now in gravest danger. Maud’s warning reminded me that my old enemies wouldn’t rest until they secured my silence.
 

* * * * *

“Will the Tudor be king?”

The question hung on everyone’s lips.

I didn’t need the cards or the scrying bowl to reveal this secret. Long ago I’d seen the bloody battle that would bring King Richard down. Already he moved towards his fate, having travelled to Nottingham to muster troops. Only when I heard the Tudor had landed in Wales did I summon the spirits.

“Nerys, Nerys,” I called in the silent hours when the house slept. Recalling Mara’s admonition about calling back the dead, I watched the water swirl with light as Nerys came to me holding high the standard of the red dragon. She beckoned. As I leaned toward the bowl, my unbound hair touching the surface of the water, Nerys commanded me to stand with her behind a line of soldiers looking up toward a hill.

Down the hill and across the plain a great white charger galloped, its hooves churning clods of earth into dust. The sun danced on the crest of its rider’s helm, dazzling my eyes. Uncanny screams tore the air. The thunder of horses shook the earth so that it quaked as if in terror. Rider and retinue bore down, hacking their way through a forest of spears and pikes. The hot, familiar reek of horse breath scorched my face. Bloody rain blurred my vision. Glinting in the sunlight, a sword arced down. The red dragon plunged and wavered.

“Treason!” cried a voice. A black tide of soldiers swooped down like ravens upon the white horse, cutting it to ribbons. The rider fell, crushed amongst a hammering tumult. But someone held out a glittering object. When I realised it was the crown, I reached to snatch it—
 

“Will we go back to Middleham?”

“No, not to Middleham.” I swallowed hard. “Somewhere new where no one knows us.”
 

Dickon’s voice quavered. “Shan’t I see my cousins again?”

“Of course you will.” Did he notice the traitorous wobble of my own voice? I forced a cheery note into my explanation. “We’re going to Mistress Proudley’s. She’s Meg’s oldest sister and our cousin, so we’ll be among friends.”

“Is Lincolnshire a long way from here?”

“Several days’ journey,” I answered, truthfully. “But with swift horses and a stout heart a man may be in London several times a year.” I knew he didn’t relish living among strangers. “Judith has a shop selling produce from her husband’s farm. She needs help and has offered us work and lodgings. It’s a piece of luck we can’t spurn.”

Memories tugged me back to the fortune-telling. Soon I’d see the landscape I’d described to Judith all those years ago. Dispassionately, I contemplated all the events that had brought me to this journey. I saw again the pattern and the shape of destiny unfold like a vast, vivid tapestry caught within the confines of a monstrous loom. Hadn’t Mistress Evans warned me I’d a long road to travel?

King Richard paid me a generous pension for Miles’s loyalty but I’d little hope the Tudor would continue. He showed no love for the usurper’s henchmen, nor compassion for their widows. And Maud proved right about us not being safe in the city. Too many days I grew aware of a familiar figure watching me from dingy corners. Recently he dared to follow me into the market, taunting me with sly insinuations.

“The Tudor’s averse to sorcery, Mistress Forrest.”

“Have you nothing better to do than torment widows, Master Green?” I held my head high, the dull ache in my heart making my voice hard-edged. I knew he’d take any coins he could for whispering secrets. Before long, the Watch would come looking for me.

Besides, ever since the Tudor took the crown, new, wilder rumours circulated. People whispered the Wydeville boys had escaped the Tower. Some even swore they’d seen them. And lately someone dared to ask: Who gave the order for their murder? Was Gloucester truly to blame? Who else might profit from their deaths?

They say the Tudor’s anxious to suppress such speculations. But suppose Jack Green could solve the gossips’ newest mystery? What might that be worth? Perhaps, I thought, remembering Gloucester’s vigil by his sick son’s bedside and his desperate final courage, Master Green already served a new master?

“It’ll be a great adventure.” I tried to soothe a dubious Dickon, slipping my arm into his. “The Proudleys have several boys and one is near to you in age. You’ll have a new friend to keep you company.”

“I miss Ned.”

Tears stung my eyes. “I know, but it wasn’t to be. Ned was too good for this wicked world. You must be glad he’s at peace now.”

My voice shook dangerously but it wasn’t Lord Ned’s face which darted into my mind, but that of Miles. His guilt lay heavy on me. But I couldn’t learn to regret my love for him. His last secret lay safe in my keeping. Fighting tears, I crossed myself and said a silent prayer for the comfort of his soul, wondering what Brother Brian would have thought of this new piety. And thinking of Miles, Mara’s words came echoing back—
Yours is a thorny road, child, but love is never wasted or forgotten
—For a moment I was there, in the velvet blackness of her shelter all those years ago—

The rumble of cartwheels shook me from memories.

“Here’s Harry. Carry our bundles, for you’re the man of the house now.”

But Rob Metcalf took them. “Harry sent word of your plans.” He flushed with embarrassment. “I thought to guide you on the journey. I’ve a fancy for farming in Lincolnshire myself and I’ve found a place that might suit. Perhaps you’d consider visiting some time?”

Extraordinarily touched by Rob’s devotion, I smiled at the memory of Genevieve’s giggles. “Perhaps I might,” I answered. I pressed his hand so the flush in his cheeks deepened. “I’d be glad to know someone trustworthy would watch over my son.”

“Be sure and learn your letters so you can write to us,” Harry told Dickon. “I’ll warrant you’ll be back in London sooner than you think.”

Impulsively the lad flung himself into Harry’s embrace, fighting tears.
 

As the cart bore us away through the twisted streets I thought how once I’d longed to leave the city and return to my village. Now I abandoned it with regret, thinking of those whose company I should miss. Unbidden, other loved faces returned—Jane Collins busy in the nursery; pretty, foolish Emma at the fair; Joan and Lionel boasting of Sudeley; Genevieve Mountford giggling at Westminster; Maud Attemore in flamboyant gown, stout arms upon her ample hips, head thrown back, mouth curving in a saucy grin, laughing at the latest scandal—Would I ever look on them again?

On my lap I held a precious bundle—Brother Brian’s journal wrapped in the length of cloth-of-gold given to me by the late queen, and Mara’s painted cards—all my treasures together. One day Dickon would have children and among them there’d be a new owner for the seer’s tools.

Above the city gates a single bird like a hunchback in black rags crouched against the wind, draggled plumage fluttering. It cocked its head and winked an eye, flexed and fanned the wide, strong span of its wings. Momentarily, weak sunlight polished the feathers to an ebony gloss, transforming it into a thing of beauty.
Nothing is ever quite what it seems
, I mused, admiring the canny, handsome scavenger.

“The past is gone but the future waits. You have a promise to fulfil.”

At last I recognised the timelessness of Mara’s wisdom.

Hadn’t I already seen the elder Wydeville boy? He sat on the Tower stairs, forlorn, unshriven, lost. Behind him crouched another, fainter, shadowy figure I took to be young Richard. But however hard I tried, I couldn’t see his face, though I longed to glimpse again the impish smile that melted hearts. Could I soothe such unquiet spirits? There’d be time enough to consult the cards when we got to Lincolnshire. Mara would be pleased.

About the Author

Moonyeen Blakey

What do you know about Cleethorpes?

Although called a seaside, it’s not strictly a sea which laps up its beach. The treacherous River Humber sweeps along this east coast and is known for trapping unwary “trippers” who go paddling and then suddenly find themselves cut off from the land. But each year, visitors are lured by the attractions of golden sands, donkey rides, arcades and amusements.

Anyway, I was born here.

East-coasters have a reputation for being tough
—
probably because the winds here are cruel. But it’s worth walking the beach in winter, preferably at dawn or dusk, just to admire the windswept wonder of the scenery.

The Vikings settled on this coast. Grimsby
—
sister town to Cleethorpes - was founded by one Grim who is remembered in the tale “The Lay of Havelock the Dane” and the town became a famous fishing port.

I live in Lincolnshire.

My father, who was proud to be a Lincolnshire “Yellerbelly,” brought me up to appreciate the treasures of the county Henry VIII once called “the most brute and beastly shire in England.”
 

No doubt the king’s opinion was soured by the memory of the Lincolnshire Rising of 1536. But dismiss Lincolnshire as just a vast swathe of flat, agricultural land, and you’re making a big mistake. Walk the Wolds and you'll soon change your mind. Lincolnshire enjoys a few secrets...

I often refer to my region as “the forgotten county” because much of the country’s population has decided it has nothing to offer by way of culture or history. Lincolnshire folk just smile when they hear this. They’ve grown accustomed to hiding their assets from strangers...

My Junior School was called Old Clee and I owe it a great debt of thanks. It was new when I started and its staff had an innovative approach to education. Under the auspices of genial Headmaster, Freddie Frost, I thrived.

There were 56 pupils in my class, but teachers encountered very few problems with unruly children. They captivated us with thrilling tales that stirred the imagination. Reg Lowis, himself a published author of children’s stories and a wonderful painter, nurtured my creative writing skills and artistic talent. Olive Little inspired my life-long interest in theatre with her improvisation-based drama lessons. I still possess a copy of the book of plays she published and I like to think we inspired her to write them.