The Assassin's Wife (55 page)

“But the children—the little boys—”

“Bastards all,” said Jack.

I turned towards the light, anxious to escape, but Jack gripped my arm. His fingers bruised my flesh.

“Come, Nan, be reasonable. Your husband’s earned much honour by his loyalty. Would you see it thrown away? Would you see the kingdom given to the bastards of the Wydeville witch? Or would you rather see the triumph of the true nobility?”

“Your motive’s not honour, but greed.” My voice cracked with fury. “You care nothing about who sits on the throne as long as he keeps money in your purse. And your master, whoever he is, would have no need of such self-seekers, if his cause were honourable.”

I wrenched my arm away and ran outside into the falling rain.

“Keeping your secret will cause you much pain,” said Jack. His teeth gleamed in an extravagant smile. “Remember I tried to spare you that.”
 

I took refuge in the beauty of the chapel, for its gilded, ornamental splendour was Middleham’s greatest treasure. Before the statue of the Virgin, I knelt to admire the flickering jewels of flame lit by her many petitioners. The marble face reminded me of Eleanor. What had Eleanor’s piety and devotion brought but suffering? Would it be so terrible to tell the world the secret she’d taken to the grave?
 

Somewhere, Eleanor’s babe grew into sturdy boyhood in happy ignorance. Was it so important to wear a crown? I thought of my Dickon. I’d do anything to secure his comfort. Did someone cherish Eleanor’s boy as tenderly as I did mine? My mind turned then to little Lord Ned and the Wydeville boys. Peasant or prince, children were precious, all worthy of the same protection.
 

Looking up, I thought Our Lady’s face had assumed Lady Anne’s proud features. I trembled at her determination to see her son wear the crown. Had Gloucester spoken to her of his brother’s bigamous marriage? And if he knew of it, then Stillington had told him. Was Jack Green’s “master” the Duke? If so, what plot were he and Bishop Stillington hatching? What part must Miles play in all this? And what role had they assigned to me?

My head swam with all these questions, my mind blurred with the subtle scent of melting beeswax, a fragrance laden with the elusive memory of summer-warmed wings. Brother Brian’s face rose before me in the smoky darkness. Like a father, he’d protected me since childhood and taught me to follow my visions. “A promise made is binding,” he said. Could I betray such a pledge? Brother Brian commended the power of prayer, and so I bent my head before the Virgin to enlist her aid.

Though no pious devotee, I begged her to have pity on me. I sat at her feet for a long time. No blinding flash of understanding struck me, no healing balm, nothing but the steady drum of rain on the roof, and the dawning certainty the gentle priest stood in mortal danger.
 

The guards found me kneeling at the Virgin’s feet when they came to arrest me.

Chapter Sixty-Nine

In the murky glow of the torchlight the figure seated before me writhed like a demon in some hellish underworld. The tarry smoke of a brazier choked me with its stench. I twisted my hands in their restraints. The rope chafed against my wrist-bones. I licked cracked lips, but wouldn’t ask for water. Nor would I ask after Dickon. They might do something dreadful to him. But surely a man of God wouldn’t harm a child?

“Spare yourself this discomfort.” The oily voice seemed genuinely concerned. “We know you guarded Dame Eleanor’s secrets. You’ve only to admit witnessing the marriage contract made between her and King Edward and you’ll be released.”

“If you know her secrets, sir,” I answered, drops of sweat stinging my eyes, “then why do I have to tell you anything?”

“Did the king promise marriage?”
 

“I can’t say, sir.”

“You mean you don’t know or you won’t say?”
 

Bishop Stillington grew impatient. A whip-like sharpness hastened the questioning.
 

How long had I stood here? Days passed in a haze—First the courteous inquiry at Middleham, then the threats and the hasty journey through the night, the bleak, solitary cell, the persistent, rigorous examination. I lost count of the times they brought me before the bishop. Was I at Sheriff Hutton or at Pontefract? They covered my head in a hood throughout the journey, and whilst I remembered constant drizzle, the smell of ale and damp wool, the sound of creaking leather and plodding hoof-beats, I’d no concept of the distance.

“Your priest has been more co-operative.”

“What have you done to him?”

My stomach clenched with terror. I trusted Brother Brian wouldn’t betray me however much they tortured him.

“Come, come, child,” said the cleric, as if shocked. “Do you think I’d harm one of my own?”

I didn’t answer. I knew he’d shrink from nothing to have his way.

He plucked some letters from his sleeve. “Your trust in the priest is touching.” He opened out one of them. He toyed with another. “Your writing again, Mistress Forrest—but sadly Master Palmer has taken a vow of silence.” He bared his teeth in a monstrous smile. “Brother Brian’s saved you more than once from punishment, I think?”

“Punishment?”
 

“You were accused of witchcraft?”

The voice assumed its bland, smooth quality, but behind the deft control lurked bone-chilling menace.

“I was a child, sir.”

“Ah, yes, of course. But where are the cards?”

“Cards?”
 

How I despised my foolish echo!

“The painted fortune telling-cards.” Enmity hardened his voice.
 

“I threw them away.” My heart pounded at the lie.

“So you don’t deny possessing them?” He sensed my weakness.

“An old woman gave them to me.” I began to babble. “I used them for amusement, nothing more.”

“For amusement?” The cruel sneer taunted. “Since when was witchcraft deemed amusement?”

“I told fortunes for entertainment, sir. Never for wicked purposes.”

Silence.

Sweat trickled from my armpits and between my breasts. I smelled my own terror.

“Do you know what happens to witches?”

“They’re hanged, sir.”
 

“Hanged or burned.”
 

He uttered the words with a relish that turned my bowels to liquid. Surely he’d placed cruel emphasis upon the “burned”?

“Come, Mistress Forrest, let us speak frankly. Sister Absalom regretted your tendency to heresy while you were at Norwich. Your own husband was obliged to chastise you for fortune-telling, and yet you persisted in ‘entertaining’ your women friends with this conjuring.”

“Not conjuring, sir.”

“But I’ve talked to some of these friends of yours.” The bishop looked pained. “Surely you remember Philippa Purseglove? She said you talked of nothing but spirits.”

“That’s a wicked lie, sir!” My voice shook with anger. How could Philippa betray me after all these years? “I was no more than a child when I knew Philippa.”
 

“Indeed.” The bishop lifted an eyebrow. He smiled as if bewildered, but his eyes were granite. “But what of Jennet Jackaman and Dorothy Bullinger? Did they lie too? I think you were not so young then—”

My mind skipped back to the girls giggling in the dark, fat Rosamund asking if she’d ever marry—to Agnes and Lucy at Barnard—how many of my old acquaintances had the bishop questioned? What of Alice and Genevieve? Meg Huddleston? Could it be even Lady Anne had betrayed me?

“It was just a game, sir, never conjuring.”

“Well, then, call it what you will, but I think you need reminding of the gravity of such ‘amusement.’”

“No, Miles warned me of the dangers. Because of this, I threw the cards away.”

The bishop smiled as if amused. “And Amy Sadler? Did she warn you too?” He gave a signal.

Out the stinking smoke stepped a huge, hooded man holding what looked like a pair of metal pliers.

“Perhaps Master Raymond may persuade you to be more helpful. Show Mistress Forrest some of your toys, Raymond.”
 

The giant threw something on to the brazier. At once the flames flared up ravenously. In the fierce roar of this fire I glimpsed the protruding stems of many metal objects. I watched in awful fascination as Raymond’s gauntleted hand drew forth a pair of pincers heated to a scarlet glow.
 

“Applied to tender flesh these implements may make even the most stubborn spirit yield,” the bishop said soothingly. “I’ve known strong men weep at the torment of their fiery pinching. And Raymond has others that can tear and burn, ones that rip as they scorch, some that probe and fry the secret places of the body in the most exquisite agony. Master Raymond’s very proud of his skills, are you not, Raymond?”

As the ghastly hooded face turned to me I imagined its teeth fixed in a hungry grimace.
 

“Perhaps you would care to examine the pincers more closely?”

At the approach of the torturer, a cruel heat emanated from these claws.

“Ah, Raymond,” said the bishop, as I swayed, “I fear the lady’s frightened by your ardour. I don’t think she’s ready to make your intimate acquaintance yet.” He addressed the guard standing at my elbow. “Let her spend a day or two in the company of the Welshwoman.” He turned back to me, his voice caressing. “I think you’ll enjoy meeting our foreign guest. She may advise you how to avoid meeting Master Raymond again.”

In a rustle of scarlet robes the cleric departed as speedily as a spirit and guards dragged me along the dank underground corridors to evil-smelling darkness.

* * * * *

“Don’t you fear the death?”
 

My eyes had grown accustomed to the black cell.

The little, pointed face turned upward as if towards a source of unseen light. A stifled gurgle akin to laughter shook the starved body.
 

“Who’d not fear pain? But to be free? I’d give much to feel the wind on my skin, to smell hay and hear the sheep bleating in my mother’s pasture-land again.”

“Your mother told me many things.”

A cold hand, sinewy as a bird’s claw, seized mine. “My mother’s wisdom should’ve kept us both from this place. But I wouldn’t listen. If I had, I’d be where Olwyn lies now, safe in the arms of Simon Halstead, listening to the cries of a babe in the cradle, and birds squabbling in the eaves. But I only laughed and said Olwyn could have him. I looked higher than to be a farmer’s wife. Besides, I’d seen envy in Olwyn’s face. I knew for the younger to wed before the elder would bring her shame. But I didn’t spurn him just to please her. I wanted something more than that dull village for the rest of my life, and besides—”

“You have the Sight?”

“Oh, we both have that,” she said. I tingled at this recognition until I realised she spoke of her sister. “Olwyn didn’t want the gift, although we both had it from our mother and our grandmother before her. She wouldn’t use it. She hankered after babes and housewifery.” She brought her face close to mine. I smelled stale breath, the rank, sweet odour of sickness and unwashed flesh. Taloned fingers explored my face and hair. “I must have been very young. I don’t remember you. I recall a fair wench who married the reeve.” Her laughter rang eerily in the fetid blackness of the chamber.

“That was Alys Weaver.”

“She was a lovely woman, the reeve’s wife. I remember her hair. Like a river of gold it was falling over her shoulders. I thought she was a princess from a fairy-tale and he was a monster. She had to do everything for him. In the end he couldn’t even wipe his own arse. He just sat drooling like a baby. I watched her growing old before her time, her beautiful hair fading until it was bleached white as bone, like an old woman’s—her own boy gone—and she left with his ugly daughter—But I don’t remember you.”

“You were six or seven. I saw you winding wool in your mother’s kitchen. I thought you a fairy child.”

“Much good all this does us. We can’t go back to those times. My mother’s dead and the village as far away from both of us as paradise. You may walk un-scorched from this prison, mistress, but I must face the flames.”

I opened my mouth to protest but she pressed her bony finger against my lips and laughed again. This time she wailed like the cry of a sea-bird. For a moment I thought I saw the beating of wings against bars.

“I’ll be glad to escape. I’ve lain here forgotten for many seasons but now you bring me freedom. No, don’t deny it, for you have the Sight yourself. He’ll make you watch. Be brave, mistress. They say the pain is fierce but soon passes. I’ll look for you out the fire. Watch for me and sing me to heaven.”

She kissed me on the brow, a brush of dry skin against my own, and then she began to sing low and sweet in that strange language like rippling water. If it was a spell she wove I don’t know but I drifted into dark, untroubled sleep.