The Assassin's Wife (64 page)

Chapter Eighty

In Bread Street, the Mercers’ affectionate welcome broke my control. Too long I’d held my fears in check. Now, like a bursting dam, they exploded. Sobbing without restraint, I fell into Margaret Mercer’s arms.

“Maud Attemore’s plied me regularly with information,” a nervous Harry told us. “Aye, and sent me on several wild goose chases after some wench or other who might have been your Emma. Some of my experiences have been very peculiar!” He caught Meg’s eye and they both laughed. “You’d never believe some of the places I’ve seen. In Southwark—” His mother coughed and raised her eyebrows at Nancy and Will smirking and nudging each another. “Ah, yes—” Harry looked contrite. “Only yesterday Maud told me the landlord at The Grapes in Stoney Street had taken on a new serving wench. She was rumoured to have a child so I went along and saw the lass myself—a thin little thing with pretty, blonde curls— not much older than Nancy—”

“That sounds like Emma. Did she have my Dickon?” I sat nursing Harry’s youngest child, little Hal, on my lap, his wriggling body reminding me fiercely of my own boy—and tears threatened.
 

Harry and Meg exchanged glances. He gave my hand a squeeze. “No, I didn’t see a child and I didn’t get to talk to the wench. The landlord’s a rough fellow and very protective of her—if you understand my meaning.” He gave Rob a pertinent look. “I think he plans to keep her for the delight of certain wealthy customers—”

“We should go there now.” I handed Hal to Meg.

“Not so fast. It might be best if Rob and I go alone. The area’s hardly fitting for respectable women-folk—”

“No! You must take me with you. I’m not afraid of such places.”

In the end they yielded, but not before Margaret Mercer had dressed me up like a doxy, and Rob and Harry sported villainous disguises to blend in with the rabble which generally frequented The Grapes.

This rowdy, old inn was one of many low looking taverns in Stoney Street. Mingling among an unsavoury assortment of ill-dressed ruffians who lurked about the dimly-lit Southwark lane, smells of sour ale, scorched meat, and unwashed flesh assailed our nostrils. I wondered how Jack Green could have brought Emma to such a place. Jack, with his fastidious, fashionable clothes scented with costly sandalwood would surely have been conspicuous here?

Shoving our way between jeering villains playing dice, drink-sodden ancients and whispering knaves huddled in corners, we followed the loud, coarse laughter to where a fire blazed in the hearth. Here, groups of affluent-looking men ate and drank among a herd of boisterous, gaudily clad wenches. All these wore tawdry gowns pulled low on their bosoms and shrieked and postured at every opportunity, while the landlord, a huge, pot-bellied knave with a villainous looking scar above his left eye and a vast, balding head like a boulder, barked orders to the scurrying serving girls. My eyes fell immediately upon the blonde.

An Emma, much altered and thinner than I remembered, moved with weary boldness amongst the leering men, her sweet features sadly coarsened, the curling ringlets lustreless. Her dainty hands bore soiled, broken nails. She smiled provocatively.

“Emma!”

For an instant she didn’t recognise me, and then fear flooded her eyes. Panicked, she flung down her tray and would have run if Harry and Rob hadn’t caught her.

“Come lass.” Harry hustled her by the elbow toward me. “Your sister’s been looking for you everywhere. Surely she deserves a moment of your time?”

Flinging a bag of coins to the scowling landlord, he winked and tapped his nose.

Once outside, we dragged the girl down a murky alley.
 

“Emma, where’s Dickon?” Harry placed a hand over her mouth to stop her screaming and Rob in his black cloak, ragged hat shadowing his face, towered over her menacingly. “What have you done with him?”
 

“No one’s going to hurt you, Emma. Just give Dickon to me or at least tell me where he is—”
 

The insolent girl turned her head to avoid me. “Jack Green has him,” she answered, sullenly. “He told me he’d marry me if I got Dickon for him.” She laughed then, a hard, mirthless laugh that spoke of painful disillusionment.

“You don’t belong in this dreadful place.” I seized her hand. “Come back to Middleham.”

“Middleham! Me?” She laughed again, but tears welled in her eyes.
 

“At least let us take you somewhere more suitable. Somewhere we can talk freely.”

Back in Bread Street, under Margaret Mercer’s appalled eyes, the girl hunched by the parlour fire gulping sweet, warm wine while we questioned her. Once started, she ranted of nothing but Jack Green— how he’d promised to show her the sights of London, and she’d been bewitched by the pictures of the city he’d painted. “But it’s a filthy place. I never saw such rotten houses and rubbish just lies stinking in the streets.”

When he first brought her to London, Jack took her to city taverns where they dined on the finest food. He bought her trinkets and fashionable clothes, lavished her with entertainments and kept her like a lady in richly furnished lodgings with servants dancing in attendance.

“And Dickon?”

“Oh, he told me Dickon wouldn’t be harmed.” She laughed bitterly. “He said he’d promised to take Dickon to his father—”

“To his father? But why?”

“I don’t know—I don’t know.” She grew petulant, and Harry gave me a warning glance.

He coaxed her gently. “Is Dickon still with Jack?”

“I think so.” She flashed a quick, defiant look. “He was safe enough with me when we were first there. I took good care of him.”

“And was Jack working in the city?”

“Oh yes.” She seemed keen to share this information. “He always had plenty of money in his purse. He carried messages for King Richard—and for Bishop Stillington. One time he went to visit Sir James Tyrell, where he used to work as a groom, but he wouldn’t take me—”

“But did you meet any of his friends?” Harry asked.

“Sometimes.” She frowned as if attempting to recollect these occasions. “They were all surly fellows. One of them was called John Deighton. He’s Tyrell’s horse-keeper and often came to bring Jack messages. I didn’t like him. Once he stayed with us for two days and did nothing but make coarse jests about me. There’s something really nasty about him. He has the cruellest eyes.”

Deighton—the name stirred a memory. I thought back to a journey to Barnard when Miles and I first married and our fateful halt at the Greyhound Tavern. A long history lay between Miles and this Deighton.
 

“Did Jack ever take messages to the Tower?”
 

“Oh yes. He had letters from the king for Sir Robert Brackenbury, the Constable.”

“Do you remember my husband, Miles? He’s at the Tower with the late king’s son. Did you ever see him?”

“Ah, those poor boys!” Emma turned huge, frightened eyes upon me. “Jack said Lord Edward was sick with the toothache and was a miserable boy, always complaining—too lazy even to dress himself. But the other one—Lord Richard—he’s a merry little lad.”

“Lord Richard’s with his brother?”

“Of course.” Emma looked at me as if I were a simpleton. “Jack fetched him from the Sanctuary.”

Jack Green again—How many cunning tricks had he played?

But how could Elizabeth Wydeville part with her boy? Hadn’t I begged her not to send him to the Tower? Mara’s words returned to taunt me—“The widow rejects your service.” But why? Even the king said she believed me. What had Richard of Gloucester promised her? “She who sows tears will harvest sorrow.” Mara told me that, too. Elizabeth Wydeville ordered the murder of the Desmond boys—I remembered her saying “They’re dead these ten years.” Would she now reap her own sorrow?

Harry crouched before Emma, speaking slowly as if addressing a child. “Did Jack take Dickon with him when he left you?”

She nodded, rubbing tears from her face.

“And do you know where Jack is now?”

“I’ve not seen him in weeks.” She began to weep copiously. “But he’ll be at Tyrell’s.”

Emma proved right. But Jack Green clearly expected us. The girl, though promised work and lodgings, had sneaked off during the night to warn her erstwhile lover. How could I blame her? Love made me weak and foolish, too.

“Mistress Forrest,” Jack Green greeted me with an obsequious smile as we rode into the courtyard of Tyrell’s fine manor-house. “What a pleasure to see you again.”

“What have you done with Dickon?”

If Rob hadn’t held me firmly, I think I’d have torn at Master Green’s impudent face. As it was, Harry put a dagger to the knave’s throat and gripped him firmly with the other hand.

“Tell us where the boy is and I won’t harm you. But if you’ve hurt him, then by St Peter, I’ll see you hanged.”

“I think not, Master Mercer.” Green raised his brow to indicate men in the king’s livery. They appeared from the house to encircle us in silent menace. “You see, I have the king’s protection. Besides, your fears are groundless.” He gifted me his old, weasel-smile. “Where else would the lad be, but with his father?”

“With Miles?” Bewildered, I looked from Jack to Harry and then back to Rob.

“Aye,” said the detested voice, with the merest chuckle of amusement. “The lad helped me persuade his father to perform a little service for the king. Miles can be difficult sometimes. As a reward, Miles now has Dickon in his keeping. I took him myself, early this morning.”

With Rob’s help, I leapt back into the saddle and turned my horse.

“What?” called Jack Green. “No thank you for my pains? Don’t you want to hear how your old priest screamed and soiled himself when he was tortured, Mistress Forrest?”

He was laughing as we rode away.

Chapter Eighty-One

At Baynard’s Castle they greeted us with open hostility.

“Miles Forrest hasn’t been here in a long time.” One of the officers wearing the badge of the dowager Duchess of York eyed me insolently. “King Richard made him rich—though what services he demanded for this favour I’m sure you can guess.” He spat contempt. “Our Dick can be generous when it suits him! Forrest thought himself too grand for the likes of us. I’ve no idea where he’s living now.”

Leaving Rob to make enquiries in the nearby taverns, Harrry took me to Maud’s shop in the Chepe.
 

Overwhelmed by her effusive welcome, we’d a hard time getting her to listen to our questions. Crushing me to her voluptuous bosom, she prattled admiringly of my changed fortunes, until Harry interrupted urging haste, and began interrogating her about the princes in the Tower.
 

As she related her store of news, her raddled handsome face grew graver. She assumed an awed voice, as if afraid to tell us the worst. Finally she leaned close. “Then last Easter, when we heard the little Middleham prince was dead, all the old stories started up—grimmer than ever, and by July a nasty rumour told how the king had decided to get rid of those Wydeville boys because he felt unsafe—”

“And did you hear anything of a Master Forrest?” Harry’s homely face grew sombre.

“I heard the name once or twice.” She gave me a wary look.

“My husband’s disappeared.”
 

Lowering her voice, she drew me aside, for a huddle of curious women had gathered in the street. “They said someone was hired to put those lads away—and the name Forrest was mentioned.” The expression in her eyes shook me with horror. Was I already too late?
 

“I don’t want to listen to crazy talk! I just need to find Miles and Dickon!”

My outburst shocked everyone. Stunned by the unexpected flood of tears which followed, Maud stretched out her arms, gasping in astonishment when I shook off this attempted embrace.

With a sympathetic nod to Maud, a patient Harry wrapped his arm about my shoulders and steered me away. “Don’t let Maud’s tittle-tattle disturb you. You know how she loves to exaggerate.”

Turning briefly to where the bewildered gossip stood watching us, he waved a jaunty farewell. “Tomorrow, unless Rob has any other news, you must accompany me on my morning bread delivery to the Tower. I’ve a feeling your Miles may still be there—and where he is, we’ll surely find Dickon.” Although designed to cheer, his words didn’t fool me. I knew Harry too well. His whole presence oozed anxiety. “We should have questioned that knave, Green, while we had a chance,” he muttered. “By the Rood, Nan, I wish I’d cut that smirk from off his face!”

* * * * *

In the steamy gloom just before dawn the huge, white-faced fortress of the Tower crouched like a beast waiting to devour the unwary. Its turrets rose tall and ominous against a cobalt skyline. Mist silenced the river traffic. Sultry heat clung about the fabric of the buildings, stifling the city’s noise. Inside this terrible place, if my dreams spoke true, wicked shadows lurked and cries of pain echoed among its chill, damp passageways.