The Assassin's Wife (31 page)

Buffeted into alleyways surrounding the Fleet, Harry managed to shake off the main body of the press and escape into a little-used lane.

“You can let go of my sleeves now, but mind where you put your feet!”
 

Down the centre of the lane ran a stinking sewer full of refuse and ordure. Nancy wrinkled her nose. “Who’s Tiptoft, papa?”
 

“A wicked nobleman who’s been caught and will be punished. But don’t let it spoil your day, sweeting. You’ve so much to tell Grandma about the king’s parade.”

Picking our way through this muddle of streets and squalid houses, we turned into Rood Lane at last, and encountered a rabble spilling out of a tavern.

“Did you hear the news, mistress?” A drunken fellow wearing a soiled livery embellished with the bear and ragged staff accosted me amiably. “John Tiptoft’s to be chopped tomorrow!” Lurching forward, he made as if to embrace me. Outraged, I recoiled from his reeking breath, provoking a gale of laughter from his fellows.

“Are you the Earl of Warwick’s men?” Harry stepped forward to take my arm, Nancy held protectively by his other hand.
 

“What’s it to you? Are you for Lancaster or for York?” Rubbing his misshapen nose, a hulking youth squared up to Harry.

“We’re the king’s true subjects,” Harry answered without hesitation. I admired the way he could speak so calmly in the face of this rowdy, unpredictable group.

“Then, come and drink with us.” The stripling turned to smile at me lasciviously. “And bring your lovely wife with you.”

“No more drinking here tonight, my lads.” The landlord’s muscular figure appeared in the inn doorway. “The curfew bell’s ringing. Away to your lodgings.”

He nodded to us as we watched the melee weaving about the street, following a raucous voice urging them to The Golden Lion.

“I hear the Butcher’s lodged in the Fleet.” He picked up a pewter pot from the steps. “Will you go and see him dispatched tomorrow?”

Harry shook his head. “I’ve no stomach for it.”
 

“What about you little one?” The landlord squatted to address Nancy, but she hid her face. “Hey, look where you’re going!” He rose at once to face another storm of ruffians charging down the street.
 

I cried out when one of them knocked me off balance.

“Your pardon, mistress.” The culprit executed a tipsy bow, while I struggled to my knees.

“Never mind the ladies, Jack,” said one of his companions. “There’s some serious drinking to be done. Time enough for courtship later.”

“Let me help you.”

The voice rang boldly, delivered in the flat manner of the north. A firm hand gripped my elbow.

“Thank you, I can manage.” Wrenching my arm away, I confronted my assailant with the intent of giving him a piece of my mind.

“Nan?” Harry called anxiously. “Are you alright?”

I stood rooted to the spot, my heart pounding. Even in the shadows I’d have known those piercing blue eyes. The familiar swarthy features creased in a smile that lured me with its promise. Spell-bound, I grasped the proffered hand just as another crowd of merry-makers swept around the corner. They barged between us. Unwillingly, our hands separated and I floundered amongst the mob, trying to scan the whirl of faces, until Harry dragged me away. With Nancy under his other arm, he ran without stopping until we reached Bread Street. Behind us drunken laughter roared and bottles thudded among the cobbles.
 

“Was that someone you knew?” Setting Nancy down, Harry leaned against the wall to catch his breath. “You seemed—”
 

Even Nancy stared at me.

“Jesu!” The colour drained from Harry’s face. “Was it him?”

I nodded, the blood burning in my cheeks.
 

“He was wearing Gloucester’s device—Remember that.”
 

An excited Nancy hammered on the bake-house door. Before we could say any more Mistress Mercer snatched us into the house, gathering the bewildered child into the safety of her embrace.
 

“We’ve been out of our minds with worry. There’ve been dreadful noises and drunken rogues dashing up and down the streets all night.”

“A bad man’s having his head cut off.” Nancy imparted this shocking news with a child’s gravity. “And a man with blue eyes tried to take Nan away.”

Alarmed, Margaret Mercer glanced first at me and then at Harry.

I made a poor attempt at laughter. “I thought he was someone I knew.”
 

“It was just one of Gloucester’s men who’d drunk too much ale.” Harry’s lie made both of us look sheepish. “Let’s get Nancy to bed. She’s had a busy day.”

In the living quarters Meg soothed a fractious Will. “Marian said the crowds had turned violent.” A little pulse twitched by her mouth. “Is it true about Tiptoft?”

Sleep eluded me for a long time, but when it came I was sucked into a whirlpool of vivid dreams in which an unseen enemy hunted me down. I raced through endless, dark streets to avoid my pursuers, but as I turned into an alleyway, the blue-eyed man snatched me in his arms and carried me into a rowdy tavern. I didn’t struggle. In fact, I allowed him such licence and took such delight in it that I awoke with a flush of mingled shame and pleasure.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

On the last day of December a hooded figure startled Mistress Mercer as she raised the shutters at first light. Big Hal, down in the bake-house, heard her scream, but by the time he arrived in the shop the rogue sped away into the frosty darkness.

“He asked for you,” she said, recounting her tale at breakfast.
 

Four pairs of eyes turned to accuse me.
 

Heart thumping, I rose from my place. “Me? Why?”

“Was it that Bishop Stillington’s man again?” asked Meg.

“Was it a tall, dark, muscular fellow?” Harry asked before she’d finished.

For a moment hope made me bold. “Was it Miles?”

“It was dark,” she answered, shaking her head irritably. “But not so dark I couldn’t see it was a lean, young rogue.”
 

“But why would he want Nan?” Harry flashed me a warning glance.
 

“This is happening too often,” said Big Hal. “It upsets your mother.”

“He spoke like a nobleman,” Mistress Mercer interrupted, frowning as if to recall the memory. “But there was something about him that seemed familiar.”

For days after this event, a nervous, edgy atmosphere persisted, making us jump at any unusual event and balk at strangers.
 

* * * * *

Twelve nights in succession a flaming star appeared in the January sky. Maud Attemore, bold eyes flashing, promised terrible disasters for 1471, and even the priests urged us to Mass. While Meg pointed at the night sky, her face painted with horror and excitement, I thought poignantly of Eleanor’s youthful chaplain, Brother Thomas, with his tale of the miraculous three suns.

“Don’t let such sights alarm you,” said Big Hal. “I remember seeing a star like that in 1456 when I was still an apprentice. It had a tail like a sabre and the Pope pronounced it the devil’s agent which would bring disaster. The only disaster that happened that year was that I met Margaret!”

“Hold your noise, you rogue.” Laughing, Mistress Mercer gave him a dig in the ribs. She was still beaming when she turned to me. “How would you like to come with me to Dowgate tomorrow? Sir Robert plans to give a banquet and I’ll need all the help I can get.”

This wealthy patron regularly asked for her services. Captured by her enthusiasm and the opportunity to see his fine property, I readily agreed.
 

“Meg and Marian can manage in the shop. There’ll be plenty of other maids there for you to gossip with and if Master Rowland takes a fancy to you, you could find regular employment. It’s time you met others of your own age.” She gave Meg a conspiratorial wink which left me wondering if Meg had arranged this, or if she’d finally devised a way to hide me.

“Master Rowland’s Sir Robert’s steward,” she told me. “He’s strict with servants but you’ll find him fair enough.”
 

Next morning she packed two huge baskets of provisions and by the time we arrived at the stately mansion-house a feverish turmoil already bubbled. Men and maids dashed and wove between us in the narrow corridors to and from the kitchen, forcing her to grip my arm to prevent me stumbling.
 

“By God, girl, get a move on!” Master Rowland’s sharp reprimand startled me. He gave one of the rosy-faced maids a hearty push. “The guests will be in the house and the meal not ready. There’s no time for gossiping now.”

The impudent, blonde wench stuck out her tongue at his haughty back, and the ensuing sniggers swivelled the steward into a sharp turn, forcing the scullion to smother his laughter with an elaborate cough.

“You see, Mistress Mercer, we’ve a truculent set of rascals today,” said the steward. He glowered at the giggling maids. “I advise you to use a firm hand.”
 

By late afternoon sweat bathed my body. My cheeks burned as I stooped over trestles laden with row on row of golden-glazed pies fragrant with the scent of spice and meat. Steam wafted from beneath flaking crusts and a great clove-studded haunch of venison smoked on a platter. Roasting meats cooked to rags with pungent herbs and warm spiced sauces mingled in a rich aroma of flavours which made my head spin. Soups, capons basted with hippocras, pork glazed with honey, baked carp, vast puddings stuffed with raisins, dates and almonds, custard dowcets, marchpane and sweetmeats waited to be served.

“Is that pottage ready, Nan?” Margaret Mercer glanced up from stirring a bowl of eggs and cream. “Sir Robert doesn’t like to keep his guests waiting.”
 

Bustling to and fro, men-servants staggered under the weight of huge dishes, their plum-coloured faces strained and beaded with moisture, and as one course followed another, the volume of noise rose to such a hubbub I grew dizzy.

“You’ll get used to it.” Margaret Mercer chuckled, stifling a yawn, as we trailed back to Bread Street swaying with fatigue, feet swollen, backs and legs aching, under a pale dawn sky.

Called back to Dowgate within a week, I embraced my new employment eagerly even though it meant sharing an attic room with several others. Though I missed the Mercers, Dowgate offered many opportunities for meeting new people. The house proved far grander than Silver Street and sheltered no malign spirits, although it stormed with activity of a different kind. Distinguished guests regularly gathered under its roof, and listening to their effusive servants, I stored snippets of information which might prove useful. I’d not forgotten those noble boys or the black-haired lover who would lead me to them.

At the busy day’s end I lay on my pallet drinking in the girls’ gossip and eavesdropping as they traded secrets, quickly warming to impudent, fearless Kate, pretty Cecily, who dreamed of marriage, and kind-hearted Dorothy. With them I laughed at Fat Rosamund’s frequent squabbles with peevish Jennet.
 

“Are you a relation of the Mercers?” asked this Jennet, her mean eyes probing my face.

“I feel as if I am,” I answered. I thought with pleasure of the family who treated me with kindred warmth. “But Mistress Mercer’s just a friend of my aunt’s and offered me work when I first came to London.”
 

In April, when the Earl of Warwick died in a battle at Barnet, struck down by King Edward’s victorious army, shockingly superstitious tales circulated—tales of sorcery, treachery and malign spirits with the Wydeville queen at the centre of them like a cunning spider in a web. The attic buzzed with excitement.

“I’m glad King Edward’s back.” Cecily smiled, starry-eyed and tender. “He’ll be able to see his baby son now.”

“But he’s made King Henry a prisoner.” Jennet’s face gleamed sharp in the rush-light. “At least he’s not married to a witch. And what about
his
son?”

“Warwick’s the one who said the queen was a witch.” Rosamund stared at Jennet belligerently, plump cheeks wobbling. “And he was the king’s best friend before
she
came along.”

The girls fell into the usual animated quarrel.
 

Closing my eyes, I thought back to my vision of the two battles. Clever, unscrupulous Warwick’s cruel death had roused much speculation. Big Hal saw it as the fall of the old nobility. What next? I wondered, remembering the hard aspect of Edward’s character I’d glimpsed at Silver Street. I shuddered at the callous way he’d abandoned Warwick. Who else would fall victim to his enmity?
 

A month later, a distraught Master Rowland strode into the hot clamour of the kitchen cutting off Margaret Mercer’s busy instructions.
 

“King Henry’s son’s been killed at Tewkesbury.”
 

Eyes fixed on our tasks, we listened to his dreadful tale of murder and betrayal.