The Assassin's Wife (65 page)

Time to confront the scene of my old nightmares
, I thought, steeling myself to enter the notorious prison. Yet hadn’t I travelled since childhood to seek it out? Brother Brian’s haggard face flashed across my mind, his troubled eyes full of pity. What dreadful secrets did it hide? Did the Wydeville princes lie sleeping beyond those thick, stone walls? And was my own boy there with his father?
 

“Maud told me everyone watched the princes playing on the green in front of the Garden Tower,” said Harry, his voice low and hushed. “They liked to shoot at the butts or fight mock battles—”

“But she told me by Christmas people saw them less and less, and in the new year not at all,” I answered in a whisper.
 

Carrying a weighty basket of bread on my hip, I followed him across the great stone bridge towards the gates I’d studied as a child. Guards armed with pikes loomed ahead, and I recalled Aunt Grace telling me these men lived in the Tower buildings. How could they sleep in such a place?
 

“I always deliver here at first light.” Harry feigned a cheery tone. He hoisted his basket higher on his shoulder. “It’s brought us good business—this place. I’ve got to know some of the guards. They’re a friendly bunch. They’ll all know Master Forrest here.”

Jesting about his new helper, the guards greeted Harry. “I prefer this dainty wench to that hulking rogue who normally accompanies you,” said one, sparking a score of ribald comments.
 

“Colin’s a sore head this morning,” answered Harry. “I thought you’d appreciate meeting my cousin. Sadly, though she’s spoken for, my lads! Her husband works here— you’ll surely know him—attendant to the Lords Bastard.”

“What name?” A bold-faced guard tore a chunk off one of the loaves and chewed it greedily, spitting crumbs.

“Forrest—Miles Forrest.”
 

“Wasn’t he in the Garden Tower?” asked the fellow of his companions, mouth full of new bread.
 

One pointed to the tall building, whose lofty walls featured in my worst visions. My heart quickened with foreboding.
 

“I’ll take you,” he said.
 

Relieved of our baskets, we followed him. Pushing open a heavy, timber door, he indicated a gloomy stairwell and gestured upward.

“Top floor.” He tipped Harry a knowing wink. “If you plan on bringing the lads out for a bit of fresh air, I’ll not disturb you. I’ve a desperate hunger on me and it’s breakfast time.” He looked at me with some sympathy then. “There’s been a deal of noise up there since before light. Sounded as if they were moving furniture, but it’s not my business to ask. I wish you success with your venture.”

He closed the outer door and immediately, a stifling darkness dropped upon us like a mantle. Sconces on the walls belched oily vapour as we climbed.
 

Passing closed doors, I trembled at the memory of my dreams, wondering what secrets these locked chambers kept. A sour stench of urine and decay leached from the clammy walls. Slimy water swamped the stairs. Pressing my cloak over my mouth against the noxious reek, I recoiled from the scuttle and slither of scaly feet and tails. An evil miasma wreathed from the river and the ancient malevolence of the place gathered about us like great feathered wings. A penetrating cold gnawed my bones.
 

Further up, the serpentine steps narrowed ominously and the pall of darkness thickened. Choked by the weight of it, we moved laboriously, our footsteps the merest sigh upon the steps.
 

At the top a heavy silence brooded.
 

Gripped by a sickening spinning sensation, I recognised the timber and iron-bossed door which lay before me. It stood ajar, revealing a coil of inky black that smoked inward.
 

Clenching my teeth, I pushed it wide.

“Who’s there?”

A torch flared suddenly, lighting up the chamber, stinging my eyes. Several liveried men, illuminated like imps in its flame, set down a heavy, carved chest. Beyond them, the chamber stood bare save for a bed stripped of its hangings and ashes in the fire-place.
 

“What do you want here?” asked the torch bearer, while the others squatted, panting from their exertions.

“We’re looking for Master Forrest,” Harry said from behind me. “He’s attendant to the Lords Bastard.”

“Gone,” gasped one of the others.
 

“The boys were sent north to train as knights.” A portly fellow with a broom offered this information while the others murmured and stretched their aching muscles.

“All the attendants were dismissed weeks ago,” said the torch bearer.

“Black Will went last year,” said another voice, choked by coughing.
 

“Forrest and Deighton were the last.” The portly fellow sank down on the chest, wiping sweat from his brow with his sleeve.

“Could they have been sent with the lads?” asked Harry.
 

The portly fellow nodded gravely. “Very like—their uncle’s sent them to Middleham where he trained under Warwick as a boy.”

“Was there another little boy with them?”
 

All the men looked at me then with a mixture of curiosity and pity.
 

“Only the Wydeville lads were here,” the portly fellow replied, his tone uneasy. “But sometimes visitors came—once a bishop—”

“Stillington?”
 

Bemused by my interruption, the men shrugged and began muttering together.
 

“Someone said the king came to see them,” offered the torch-bearer.
 

The man on the chest laughed sardonically. “I doubt it. This part of the Tower’s a forgotten place. And the king wanted to forget about those lads.”

“Are you well, Mistress? You look pale.” The torch-bearer grabbed Harry’s arm. “Best get her outside, sir, into the air. She’s probably heard some wicked tales of this place. The wenches are always fainting when they come here.”

* * * * *

Outside, Rob waited with the horses as arranged. He showed no surprise when we told him the princes had gone. A grim expression distorted his usually pleasant face.

“There’s a tale they’ve moved to Middleham,” said Harry. “And Master Forrest with them.”
 

With a brusque shake of his head, Rob urged us to mount. Harry glanced at his closed expression with curiosity. “Where to now?”

“Lombard Street,” Rob answered curtly. “Master Forrest’s lodging there. I had the information from that knave, Jack Green.”
 

Chapter Eighty-Two

I never discovered how Rob got his information. He showed no inclination for talk either then or afterward. But tension made us all taciturn.
 

The fine house to which he took us stood in an area of the city where wealthy merchants lodged. Leaving Harry to hold the horses, Rob hammered on the door. A spindly lad of about thirteen, in a fine blue and murrey livery, opened it. He looked as if he was used to such rude summons.

“Master Forrest?”

“Aye, inside. Who—?”
 

“His wife and cousins.” Harry pushed him aside. “Take our horses.”

Inside candles blazed, gilding opulent furnishings. In spite of the warm day, a huge fire leaped within the hearth, and there, before it, sat Dickon, like a miser relishing the comfort of his gold.
 

I flung myself upon the child, pressing his body against mine, covering him with kisses and babbling endearments. He didn’t respond. Stiff and unyielding in my arms, he stared at me with such cruel indifference I thought my heart would break.

“Sweet Jesu! What have they done to you?”

I noted then discarded bottles and goblets strewn amongst the rushes, but I didn’t need these to tell me Miles was drunk. His tall, dishevelled figure wavered before us, clearly stunned by our unexpected arrival.
 

“Nan.” His voice slurred, drowsy with ale and disbelief. “I prayed for you to find me.” In the flickering candle-light his face gleamed gaunt and wolfish, the black hair standing in spikes like raised hackles. His eyes burned from dark hollows. Hugging me close, he murmured incoherent words into my hair.

“Miles, we must leave at once.” I struggled from his ferocious grasp. “Harry and Rob have come to take us back to Bread Street.”

Stupidly, Miles watched the servant lad collecting his belongings together.

“All’s paid for, sir,” said this youngling, when Harry offered money. But he gladly took the generous coins we left on parting.

Dickon rode with Harry. Stony-faced and silent, he kept his head turned from me though he drooped in the saddle.
 

“He’s almost asleep,” Harry said. “He’s obviously had little rest in days. I’m sure he’ll be a different boy when he’s slept. It’s the shock of seeing you again—God knows what he’s been used to with that villain, Green—”
 

But to me it seemed an eternity before my child would even look in my direction.

* * * * *

Early next day, Harry dispatched a reluctant Rob to Middleham. As rosy light painted the far horizon we watched him ride off through the city gates in a cloud of dust.
 

“There’ve been so many rumours about the Wydeville boys—that they’ve been sent to Sheriff Hutton with the king’s bastard son, John, or shipped to Flanders—It’s hard to know what to think—” Harry’s voice trailed in embarrassment.

In silence we threaded our way back to the bake-house through the barely wakened streets, with the clatter of opening shutters, the roll of barrels, the creak of cart-wheels assaulting our ears. We passed a sleepy lad with a mangy cur on a rope, a drab in a frowsty kirtle, a stocky fellow carrying wood, as if we trod a dreamscape. An unspoken horror lay between us and at every step, the burden of it grew heavier on me.
 

As always, the house smelled fragrant with new bread. Down in the bake-house Will sang as he hauled a second batch of loaves from the ovens. In the shop, a yawning Marian drew up the shutters and Meg looked up from stacking pastries on the shelf to speak to Harry.

Entering the kitchen, I caught Margaret Mercer’s eye and opened my mouth to spill the worst of my fears, but little Hal, his hair still rumpled from sleep, chose this moment to paddle in.

A relief, almost audible as a sigh, pervaded the kitchen.

Dickon, who’d slept in Hal’s bed-chamber, followed warily, quite different from the lively, mischievous boy of Middleham.

“I suppose you boys want some oatmeal?” Margaret Mercer said, lifting Hal onto a stool by the table.
 

Ignoring me, Dickon’s mouth widened in a smile and he ran to her at once.

Watching him playing chess with Hal and Nancy on the hearth while I washed dishes reminded me poignantly of Ned of Middleham whose skill at this game had so impressed his mother.

When Harry carried off Hal and Nancy went to help in the shop, Dickon climbed on the settle, swinging his legs back and forth, deliberately kicking over the chess pieces, his face a mask of sullen frustration.

“Stop that!” I cried, irked by this petulance and conscious of Mistress Mercer’s reproving stare. “If you’re tired of play, put away your toys.”

Scowling, he gathered up the chessmen. When he began rearranging them in some private game of his own, Margaret Mercer, putting dishes in the press, turned to give me a nudge. Accepting this encouragement to win the child’s confidence, I knelt to join him as he put some of the pieces into two little wooden carts Harry had made.

“That’s the Duke of Buckingham going to his execution.” He pointed to one of the carts which contained a single knight. “Here’s the king and his henchmen coming to watch.” The other cart held, indeed, the king and several pawns. This grisly example of the child’s imagination sent shivers down my spine.

“And who’s that?” I pointed to the bishop standing by the king’s cart.

Dickon turned to look at me with a mischievous grin. For a moment I delighted in this return to his old behaviour—until he spoke.

“Why, that’s Bishop Stillington, of course. Jack Green says Bishop Stillington is the most important person in England.”
 

Margaret Mercer dropped a basin. It rolled and spun on the floor like a wheel, making a great clamour. Dickon and I bumped heads as we scrambled to retrieve it and for a few moments we crouched together making “oohing” noises and rubbing our foreheads ruefully.

“Mama, are you a witch?”

“Who said I was a witch?” Still kneeling on the floor, I flashed Mistress Mercer a swift glance. “Was that Master Green, too?”

He nodded, and then put out a hand to stroke my cheek. The gesture reminded me of his father and I smiled tearfully. Catching Dickon’s hand in mine, I kissed it.