The Assassin's Wife (33 page)

Dorothy tried to speak but I couldn’t catch her words. Fat Rosamund pushed towards me, gabbling and gesticulating, her enormous bosom heaving.
 

“Too bad you missed it,” Jennet said. She thrust Rosamund aside.
 

“—some noblemen came to fetch her.”

I caught the tail-end of Dorothy’s explanation as the room fell silent and Master Rowland ushered in our illustrious patron. “Sir Robert wishes to acquaint you with the truth of the unusual events which took place this morning,” he said. His fishy eyes flicked a warning.
 

“Where’s Anne?”
 

Dorothy nudged me with her elbow, nodding towards Sir Robert.

“Lady Anne Neville was here at the request of her brother-in-law, George, Duke of Clarence—a particular friend of mine.” The refined, nasal voice finally caught my attention.

Lady Anne Neville! Anne Neville! The Kingmaker’s daughter! She’d stayed here among us, disguised as a cook-maid and I’d spoken to her as an equal! I barely heard the rest of Sir Robert’s speech.

“Imagine! Her father was the Earl of Warwick.” Kate’s excitement trembled in her shrill tones.
 

“Who was killed at Barnet.” Grim-faced Jennet glared a challenge at Rosamund. “And good riddance.”

“Oh Jennet, that’s unkind,” gentle Dorothy said.

“He was an arrogant, ambitious knave—and deserved to die for the way he treated the queen.”

“How can you be so heartless, Jennet? He was Anne’s father.” Cecily looked plainly dismayed. “And her husband was killed at Tewkesbury.”

“Husband?” Rosamund stammered, goggle-eyed. “Was she married, then?”

“To daft King Henry’s son.” Kate’s enthusiastic prattle engaged us all. “He hid in an abbey during the battle. A woman in the Chepe said King Edward dragged him out and killed him in revenge for the murder of his own young brother who was hacked to pieces years ago—”

“But why was she here? What’s going to happen to her now?”
 

“She’s been taken to St Martin’s Sanctuary.” Cecily’s expression grew dreamy. “The Duke of Gloucester means to marry her. Isn’t it romantic?”

“Well, I don’t suppose she’ll be inviting us to her wedding,” said laughing Kate. “She’ll have forgotten us already.”

The Duke of Gloucester! Hadn’t Harry told me my black-haired man wore Gloucester’s device? But why had Anne Neville lived in disguise at Dowgate? If the Lancastrian prince had become king, she’d have been his queen. Hadn’t I promised her a crown? But now she’d wed a mere duke—and youngest brother to the king at that—

“Nan told her fortune.” Jennet’s dark eyes fixed on mine like those of an adder. “She’s certain to remember that.”

When Master Rowland sent for me after breakfast the next morning I swallowed nervously.
No doubt he means to chastise me for the loss of purse and purchases,
I thought, drying my hands on my coarse apron.
How can I explain?

“You’ve to get all your things,” said the serving-lad who’d been instructed to find me. “Hurry up! Roly’s in one of his bad moods.”

This didn’t presage well. I wondered what Margaret Mercer would say.
 

“Well, Nan.” Master Rowland’s shrewd, pale eyes perused me. He pressed his index finger to the corner of his lower lip. “Mistress Mercer, whose opinion is much prized, commended you to me. But now you seem to have found favour with Lady Anne. So much so she’s desirous to make you her maid-servant—a more pleasing prospect than being a cook-maid, I think, even in such an illustrious house as this?”
 

“Lady Anne Neville desires me to be her maid, sir?” I couldn’t believe my ears.

“Indeed she does.” Master Rowland looked equally surprised. “She’s sent this gentleman to bring you to her without delay.”

Bewildered by my summons, I failed to notice the other occupant of the room. Leaning with his elbow against the casement, half-hidden by the shadows, stood a tall, broad man dressed in livery. My heart skipped a beat when I recognised the emblem of the white boar. My escort stepped into the light and then I saw his face clearly.

“Lady Anne’s instructed me to guard you with my life.” He spoke courteously but his piercing blue eyes moved hotly over me. His mouth twisted in a sly smile. “Will you go with me, mistress?”

Like one under a spell, I joined him by the hearth, my heart hammering with a curious mix of delight and apprehension.
 

“I’d the devil’s own job to find this place.” He turned to Master Rowland. “I’ll be glad to quit London for the clean air of the north. Fortunately my master’s keen to conclude his business and get back to Middleham without delay.” Pride and mockery rang in his voice.
 

Somehow I found myself out in the street.
 

“Miles Forrest at your service,” said my escort. He performed an insolent bow. “I’ve been waiting for you for a long time. But you know that already.”
 

Shock kept me tongue-tied. Amused by my evident embarrassment, the black-haired rogue leaned nonchalantly against the wall. “Do you believe in fate, mistress?”
 

For a heart’s-beat I pressed a hand to the bundle of cards hidden in my bodice as if it burned into my flesh. “Without a doubt.” I raised my eyes to meet his, my face aflame at the delicious memory of a kiss in Silver Street and a score of wanton dreams.

“Then you and I are fated to be together.” The pleasing, sensual mouth grinned; the blue eyes devoured me. “Everywhere I go, you turn up. I’ll swear you put some spell on me. But why didn’t you keep your promise?”

“Promise?”

“To meet me at the Boar’s Head. I waited for you. Even in dreams I’ve been looking for you ever since.”
 

Taking my bundle with a possessive air, he turned towards the city.

“Perhaps we’ll have time to better our acquaintance now.” He awarded me a secretive, knowing smile, driving a delicious flutter through my belly.

“Where are we going?” I asked, trotting along at his side like a dog who’s found its master.

“St Martin-le-Grand,” he answered in the curt manner of the north. “Lady Anne’s lodging there until arrangements can be made for her marriage.”

He took my hand with a boldness I ought to have dismissed. “You must be a special wench to have found favour with the Neville maid. They say she’s proud like her father—but I can’t fault her choice.” He smiled so winningly the hot blood rushed into my cheeks. “I look forward to our onward journey together.” The saucy glint in his blue eyes set a flood of delightful anticipation coursing through me.

So I found myself in attendance on the Kingmaker’s daughter in the sanctuary apartments of the church where I’d prayed as a child and lit candles for my beloved father. But this time the promise of freedom and fulfilment beckoned.
 

Miles Forrest and I were bound to go to Middleham together.
 

Chapter Forty-One

Middleham Castle
 

The broad hand clamped across my mouth, stifling a giggle.

“Ssh!” A voice, husky with desire, whispered by my ear. “Christ, girl, do you want me dismissed?”

We struggled together, hands busy with laces and buckles, tongues probing, breaths gasping, hungry for consummation. Staggering back into the dark, I heard the stamp and snort of horses in their stalls, smelled leather harness and warm animal flesh, the mingled scents of hay and dung.

He forced me back, my nails raking the tight fabric of his doublet as we fell into soft straw. We rolled and clung while fingers squeezed and caressed, wrenched at garments, hoisted heavy skirts, and mouths tasted new delights. I clung to the hard, muscular body while it heaved and twisted above me and the strong hands explored the soft, wet core that betrayed my need.

“Now you can laugh all you like,” he said, as he thrust inside me, but I didn’t want to anymore. Instead I fastened my mouth on his and drew him deeper until we panted for air and broke asunder. At the last, I threw back my head and opening my eyes, saw the triumph in the shocking blue of his.

Scrambling out of the stable, I fretted and tugged at my dishevelled clothes all the way back to the painted chamber in the west tower.

“You’re in a hurry.” An impudent young manservant accosted me on the stairs. He plucked a piece of straw from my hair. “Been out riding?”

I snapped my skirts around me and flounced away, my cheeks burning at the sound of his ribald chuckles.

Mistress Collins looked up from the bed she was making. “Tha’s late.” She eyed me up and down with flinty, disapproving eyes. “Give Emma a hand with those bolsters.”
 

The little duchess, married only a few months ago, expected a child in January. Under the auspices of Jane Collins, a skilled midwife, I assumed various duties in preparing for the birth of the noble child, mainly by helping her to organise the lying-in chamber and the nursery. Though brusque in manner, Mistress Collins struck me as a fair-minded, industrious matron, and her down-to earth speech reminded me of Margaret Mercer.

Emma smiled at me. “The priest’s saying special Masses for Lady Anne in the chapel,” she said.

Jane Collins snorted. “She’ll need them.” She unfolded an exquisite embroidered coverlet. “Here, take that end—” Dried sprigs of lavender scattered to the floor as we smoothed out the creases and tugged edges into place. “The duke may crave a son, but that wench’ll not go full term, mark my words.”

“She’s very pale and slender,” I answered. The midwife possessed a practised eye and Lady Anne’s constant sickness and growing fatigue dismayed me. The duke watched her constantly with a vigilance I thought suspicious rather than tender, although the servants assured me he was devoted to her.

“Is that bad?” Emma’s girlish face gazed appealingly at Mistress Collins.

“It doesn’t bode well.” The stout Yorkshire woman looked grim.
 

When Lady Anne’s pregnancy proved so difficult the physician ordered her to bed, Emma wept.

“No use shedding tears, lass.” Mistress Collins bustled about the nursery, heaving blankets from the press. “We mun do what we can. These noble wenches need cosseting. Tha can take her some wine and honey. Get one of the kitchen-maids to make some up.”

The girl scuttled away and Jane Collins gave me a sharp glance. “I fancy I’ll need thee shortly,” she said. “Tha’d best sleep in the nursery from now on.”

I nodded, but the import of her words didn’t strike me until a freezing night not long after when she roused me suddenly from sleep.

“Tha’d best come and help, lass. I hope tha’s a strong stomach.”
 

Flinging on my gown, still half asleep, I followed her in a daze, my feet stumbling on the steps, my hands buried under my armpits for warmth. An icy draught whipped smoke from the flickering torches and I flinched at an eerie, animal scream from somewhere above.
 

The stench of blood and pain corroded the lying-in chamber. Several shadowy figures scuttled to and fro, parting before Mistress Collins to reveal the full horror of the huge tester bed where the little duchess writhed and grunted.

The heifer-hipped midwife stooped, blotting out the sight of Lady Anne’s tortured mouth gaping cavern-wide. Her skilful hands probed among the mound of soiled and tangled sheets. “Here, Nan, hold her hands.” I glimpsed a pale, flailing limb and gritted my teeth against the next uncanny scream.
 

At last the plain-faced woman handed me a bowl and a bundle of bloody cloths, wiping her hands on her coarse apron. “Well done, lass.” She steered me from the bed. “Tha’ll like as not have this to do again.” She nodded at the spent white figure around which the serving maids hovered with basins of water and clean towels. “They’ve no strength for bearing children, these women. Her sister were just the same. Miscarriage after miscarriage— But they go on and on wi’ it.”

Listening to the drone of the flat northern sounds, I thrust the cloths into a basket and carried the bowl to where Emma, the little nursery-maid, crouched against the door.