The Assassin's Wife (15 page)

“Nan, I want you to sleep on the truckle bed in my chamber tonight.”

Surprised, I leapt up from storing linen in the carved oak chest just outside Dame Eleanor’s chamber. “I thought Gerta—”

“Gerta grunts and snores.” She giggled, pressing a hand to her mouth like a young girl.
 

Gerta, a big-boned, bland-faced Fleming, had been hired to attend upon Dame Eleanor’s wardrobe. She rarely ventured into the kitchen because Lionel mocked her guttural speech and Joan proclaimed loudly before her, “I can’t understand a word that wench says!” She kept mostly to her small chamber close to Dame Eleanor’s, ready to help her dress or run errands.

“There are so many strange noises in this house at night I don’t like being alone.” There was no laughter in this confession. She twisted the rings on her fingers and nibbled her lower lip, her eyes flicking towards the stairs.
 

I dropped a curtsey. “I hope I’ll prove a quiet sleeper, my Lady.”

Quitting the easy company of Joan and Alison in our shared bed-chamber was hard, but Eleanor showed me many favours. She allowed me to look at the lovely illustrations in her Book of Hours and even attempted to teach me to read. But her giddy nature prevented perseverance. Her mind flitted like a butterfly unable to settle for long on one flower and too often frivolous gossip fuelled her imagination.
 

“Tell me about your home in the country,” she said one night. She wrapped her night-robe round her, shaking out the tangle of her pale hair, while I folded away her garments.

I began describing the tiny cottages, the painted manor house, the great windmill spreading its sails over us like a sentinel, the men toiling in the fields, the blacksmith sweating at the forge, Noll Wright carving wood and Fat Marion brewing ale. The words brought back poignant pictures of a life that now seemed so far away. I tried to imagine my brothers playing on the green or racing by the water-mill to dangle their toes in the pond just as I’d once done—
 

“Did you ever see King Henry and his queen?”
 

Although I’d learned quickly Eleanor rarely gave anything more than superficial attention, this abrupt question startled me.
 

“My Aunt Grace once took me to watch a procession.” I left off combing her hair then, frowning to recover this memory. “I was newly arrived in London and amazed by the bold way people leaned out from the casements, cheering and waving.” I laughed, recalling the noisy crush in the stinking street and the excitement dancing inside me. “I almost fell over when the crowd pressed forward and then a workman lifted me on his shoulders so I could watch in safety.” Fondly I pictured again the rough-haired man with the calloused hands and unintelligible speech. “Queen Margaret was so beautiful,” I said, sweeping a brush over Eleanor’s pale tresses. “Her black hair shone like silk and flowed over her shoulders right down to her waist. And she was dressed in gorgeous vermillion and gold robes.” Vividly, I saw again the “she-wolf” as a creature made of flames, her eyes flashing dark fire.

“What about the king?” Eleanor’s face looked strangely sad in the candle-light. For a moment, with her pale hair hanging about her shoulders and her hands pressed together as if in prayer, I thought her a penitent seeking absolution.

“He didn’t wear a crown. His robes were really drab, just like a monk’s. I was so disappointed.” I paused, the brush in my hand, visualising the frail, lean figure with the childish face. “Poor King Henry! He had wispy brown hair and darting eyes—he put me in mind of a starling. But I was very young. I’d imagined a king would be strong and proud—someone who’d wear magnificent robes emblazoned with precious jewels. I suppose I’d listened to too many old tales about handsome swains and daring knights!”
 

Alison’s description of King Edward flashed into mind. My golden knight was reputedly setting the latest fashions at court and outraging the wealthy citizens with his extravagance.

During the long hours of these winter nights I often lay sleepless. I listened to the restless steps along the corridors and whisperings from the stairs. Twice I heard an owl hoot at dawn, an omen country folk always thought to presage some catastrophe, but I didn’t mention it to Eleanor. Her feverish imagination conjured too many superstitious fantasies concerning the house as it was. Sometimes she woke me saying she heard whispering outside the door. She clutched my arm with icy fingers, a nervous laugh bubbling in her throat, eyes wide like those of a panicked deer. I did my best to soothe her, but too often she sought to engage me in ghostly tales and mysteries—tales that plainly exercised a powerful fascination for her. Worse, she sent me for a cup of warm wine to bring her sleep. Then I left the drowsy warmth of my bed to cross the corridor, walk down to the kitchen, heat the wine and return, carrying only a flickering candle to keep away those prowling shadows.

This journey to and from the kitchen terrified me. Here I’d first sensed the malign presence that made Joan so uneasy, but I daren’t speak of it to Eleanor.

“Nan, are you awake?”

How I dreaded these words! Could I deny the hand shaking my shoulder?

“I can’t sleep. I’ve been lying awake for hours.”

Shivering, I donned my robe, fumbled for the candle. The flame’s soft glow illuminated briefly the dark hollows of her eyes, the hunched posture, the apologetic plea.

The corridor uncoiled before me black with menace. Sucking in a breath, I pattered across it on bare feet, focussing my eyes on the dancing flame in my hand, intent on shutting out those lurking depths beyond its beam. A few more steps brought me to the safety of the kitchen and the comfort of its fading heat. I closed my ears against the seething dark that seemed to press so eagerly behind me until I crossed the threshold.
 

Among the ashes of the fire lingered a few glowing embers. A little wood might yet stir them into life. While I warmed my hands, I breathed through my teeth, shuddering. Until the wine heated I refused to contemplate the return. I thought of Brother Brian and muttered the childish prayers against evil he’d taught me long ago. Already I’d seen too many ghostly apparitions in this place.

Holding the cup against me and armed with the candle, at last I forced myself to confront the pool of waiting shadow. Now it crouched like a snake ready to strike and swallow me up.
 

Alert to every creak and sigh in the fabric of the building, I crept back along that dreadful corridor, careful to avoid the cavernous spaces far beyond my feeble lantern’s glow. But a few paces from Dame Eleanor’s door the candle flame grew eerily tall, became a thin, poised, bluish finger. A chill, crawling sensation forced me to a halt. My scalp tingled. About me swarmed those hungry shadows, greedy for my attention. I heard the whisper of silk across the stones. Far away a high treble voice began to sing. The tune quivered, melancholy, faintly familiar, the words indistinct. Motionless, but for a feverish trembling, I listened unwillingly to the plaintive rise and fall of notes—until the candle went out—suddenly plunging me into deepest black. In that very moment a tiny hand touched my face.

“Help me.” A child’s voice fanned my ear like a cold breeze. The crawling dark engulfed me—
 

Did I scream? If I did, no one spoke of it. I must have dropped the candle in blundering through the door. Wine spilled over my feet but nothing would induce me to go back for more or retrieve the candle.

“What happened?” Eleanor’s voice shook, breathy with horror.

“I thought I heard a noise upstairs—” My own voice cracked. “It was probably just a rat or something, but it startled me. I’m sorry about the wine.”

Cold and shaking, I handed her the cup, fending off her questions with plausible excuses while my ears strained for sounds. But the house lay silent as a sleeping beast. Crouched in my bed, I recited Brother Brian’s prayers until menacing darkness engulfed me.
 

I stood in a vast courtyard. A melancholy white face pressed against the upper window of a huge tower wreathed in shadows. Its lips moved and I struggled to make out the words.

“Watch me, Will!”
 

The familiar voice summoned me to a sunlit green where the merry lad with red-gold curls shot arrows at the butts.
 

A huge bear of a man, rough-haired and black-bearded, shambled across the grass, beating a great paw upon his thigh as a bolt thudded home. The sound echoed ominously and from the corner of my eye I glimpsed a body drop from a scaffold. Before I could scream, a raven swooped across the sun to settle on the battlements. It squawked at me mockingly, flirting black feathers, its single eye like a shining nail hot from the forge.
 

“Master Slaughter!”
 

The giant turned, his eyes filling with sudden fear. A green stone set in a silver ring flashed in the sunlight as a hand reached for the boy.
 

“Help me!”

The raven launched itself, scattering dark plumage across my vision, just as the hand pressed against the boy’s mouth. In a stairwell, two hooded figures dragged him into that stifling bedchamber where the shivering candle-flame invited me to witness murder—
 

Waking suddenly in a tangle of bed-clothes, I sat upright, sweating with fear. In the dark chamber, the soft rise and fall of Eleanor’s breathing continued undisturbed. I cursed the house and its ghosts while I tried to piece together the fragments of my dream. Who was Will Slaughter, the attendant with the inauspicious name? Could there truly be such a person? And who’d snatched the boy away? Something about the figures on the stairs seemed horribly familiar. Who were those boys in the Tower whose plight still filled me with futile rage? When would I save them as Brother Brian had promised? Hadn’t I been patient long enough? Surely I should have had some sign by now. And how would I find the black-haired man while trapped in this horrible house?
 

Next morning I avoided Eleanor’s questions. The memory of the ghostly little hand on my face haunted me too vividly. I didn’t want to walk down that corridor at night ever again. Even in daylight, the others avoided it or pretended they needed someone to help them with their errands to escape being alone in that part of the house. Little Jack raced through it and once I met Lionel pale and trembling, though he wouldn’t say why.
 

I blamed the house for raising my old terrors. Once I dreamed I was back in my village being chased by men with staves. Seeking refuge in the church, I found Alan weeping by the altar. On the village green, girls wove coloured ribbons round a maypole, while Alys, crowned with white blossom, danced with a stripling in blue and murrey livery.
 

“Robin?” I reached out to touch his shoulder. Turning to greet me, his throat spouted blood—
 

Fortunately Eleanor slept soundly.

* * * * *

At the beginning of a harsh November, Brother Brian stopped on his way to the little Priory of St John to deliver messages. I was certain these included a visit to Alan. I ushered him out of a fierce sleet storm into the kitchen.

“Dame Eleanor’s gone to present her petition.”
 

“It’s a bitter day.” The priest shivered, his coarse robes steaming from the heat of our kitchen fire. “The roads are almost impassable.”

Lionel poured him a generous measure of warm ale. “Some wise woman said this cruel weather promises more trouble.” He grinned at Joan’s impatient hiss. “I don’t know much about fortune-telling, Brother Brian, but common sense tells me there’ll be more fighting. There’s still plenty of support for the old king—” He flashed Joan a teasing glance. “Though I daresay the wenches would be sorry to lose their golden Edward.”
 

“We’re not all taken in by fine appearances. But what chance does Dame Eleanor have of regaining her stolen estates with this stupid squabbling going on?” Kind-hearted Joan wrapped a warm mantle about the priest’s shoulders. “Alison, give Brother Brian a bowl of pottage.”
 

“I can’t see any petitions being granted with matters amongst the barons so unsettled, that’s certain.” For once Lionel looked serious.
 

“Is there any news of King Henry?” Everyone clustered about the priest pestering him with questions like children seeking entertainment.

“I’ll be at St John’s just for a few days,” he said. He rose reluctantly from his stool by the fire and handed Alison his empty bowl. “I’m sorry not to have seen Dame Eleanor, but with the weather so inclement I daren’t linger.”

I followed him to the door, desperate for a word.
 

“Ask permission to come to St John’s,” he said, and squeezed my hand in absent-minded farewell. With impotent rage and frustration I watched him disappear behind a veil of falling snow.

Not long after Dame Eleanor returned, rosy-cheeked and breathless, excited as a maid with a new gown. She handed me her sodden, woollen cloak with its coney-fur-trimmed hood and asked Joan to send some warm wine to her chamber.

“Do you think that upstart’s actually granted her petition?”