The Assassin's Wife (17 page)

Later we followed Dame Eleanor to the chapel for the High Mass. Afterward she dismissed me to “Take some leisure with the rest of the household” while she spent time in prayer and contemplation. As she bent her head over her book, I shuddered at her nun-like appearance and intensity.

“Is it always Dame Eleanor’s custom to mark the season in this way?”
 

I discovered Joan in her best, blue, kersey gown and Lionel in a dark, worsted tunic trimmed with sheepskin, sharing ale and gossip by a roaring fire fragrant with pine cones in the “parlour.” Noticing Alison and little Jack playing merrills, I recalled my lively cousins in the congenial house above the tannery. “Won’t there be any merry-making at Twelfth Night?”
 

“Things were different when Sir Thomas was alive.” Joan’s sigh sounded wistful.
 

“We feasted well at Sudely then.” Lionel smacked his lips over his ale, his eyes brimming with laughter. “He liked to entertain friends and was always a generous host. There were minstrels and mummers and dancing until dawn—none of this over-pious foolery—” Joan made an impatient, disapproving noise. “I’m as respectful as the next man, Joan, but my Lady’s over-fond of prayer if you ask me. Did she have you up at dawn, Nan?”

My rueful nod stirred sympathetic laughter.

“No wonder you look tired.” He sprawled back against the settle. “I’m thankful she didn’t wake me.”

“It’s a wonder you didn’t hear the noise.”
 

“What noise?” Joan’s guarded manner piqued my curiosity.

“Oh, a hammering at the door and some laughing and singing,” I answered, feigning carelessness.

“It’s always rowdy in the streets at Christmas,” said Lionel. “The Watch is lax during holidays. But I’ve grown used to it. I slept like a log.”
 

“You snored like a hog too,” remarked Jack, with an impish smirk. His jest provoked much laughter.

“Christmas was lovely when I worked for Mistress Proctor,” said Alison. “We always played games and made special cakes.”

“Perhaps I’ll make a cake for Twelfth Night.” Joan’s remark fuelled whole-hearted applause. “Dame Eleanor may be pious but she won’t begrudge us some pleasure.”

An impulsive visit from the king on a wild January afternoon filled the house with sudden tumult as if a great storm had entered the building. Once again he arrived without warning. Lord Hastings, Lord Herbert and some other gentlemen accompanied him, but this time we proved better prepared. Having opened up the “parlour” for the festive season, we entertained our noble guests in more suitable fashion.
 

The king looked at Eleanor with kindling eyes and she gazed back at him like a maid in love for the first time. Her doe-eyes shone with devotion. This ardour reminded me unpleasantly of Philippa’s infatuation with Ralph Fowler.
 

But once again the spell of the young king’s charm proved irresistible. He enchanted us all with his witty conversation, his playful impersonations of noted courtiers, his naughty tales of dull banquets, and the inclement weather that imprisoned him when he’d rather have been out hunting. His handsome face glowed under our approval. Like a gaudy peacock, he preened himself, conscious of every admiring glance—for he was dressed in a striking emerald doublet edged with red fox fur and elegant silken hose that displayed his long limbs to advantage. No lady could ignore such a figure and even the men-folk seemed impressed.
 

“Elizabeth Lucy must have lost her charms.” Lionel winked. “The king’s always looking for new pastimes to amuse his leisure hours.” He slipped an affectionate arm about Joan’s shoulders. “He quickly tires of his ladies.”
 

“Get away with you, you rogue.” She tried half-heartedly to shake him off, laughter bubbling behind compressed lips. “We need more ale from the cellar.”
 

“You should be thankful for my attentions, Joan.” Lionel maintained his hold, his grin broadening. “He’s not a faithful swain like me!” He gave her a little nudge that brought the dimples in her cheeks. Smiling to myself, I listened to her humming snatches of a popular ballad as she carried dishes to and fro, delighted the king’s presence could create such an affectionate atmosphere in the gloomy old house. But I wished it might blow away the boiling storm-cloud which I sensed and couldn’t shrug off.

With an apologetic bob, I handed the king a cup of indifferent wine. “Truly,” he said, acknowledging me with a brilliant smile, “I’d have rather spent Christmas here than with those greybeards at court.” He turned to beam at little Jack. “Sing something for us, lad.”

The boy executed a merry ballad of Robin Hood in a sweet high treble that at first reminded me of the ghostly singer, but the lively tune quickly dispelled any melancholy thoughts and set my feet tapping. Besides, the king’s careless words planted an idea in my head. Could I devise a way for Eleanor to lure him to Sudeley? Although I longed to return to the Mercers, a chance to see this manor whose praises Joan sang constantly offered a welcome interlude. If only the king would grant Eleanor’s petition for its restoration, perhaps all would be well.

Chapter Twenty

By February, the king’s frequent visits to Silver Street roused some salacious gossip in the city. According to Lionel, Dame Eleanor became the subject of much speculation. Dispatched to the Chepe upon an unexpected errand, I seized the opportunity to stop at St John’s.
 

“I must see Brother Brian!” My panicked request earned a curt response from the fleshy-nosed monk who admitted me. Sniffing his disapproval, he ushered me to the tiny guest house and abandoned me by the door, shuffling away like some dusty beetle into the shadows.
 

In the stupidity of haste I tapped and entered.

Alan Palmer and Brother Brian sprang apart. Afterward I couldn’t swear to it, but I thought I saw Alan snatch his hand away from the priest’s. Whatever had passed between them, the atmosphere throbbed with tension and I felt like an intruder. Overcome with shame, I hovered in the doorway until young Alan fled, murmuring excuses.

“Gerta was supposed to be collecting some gloves that needed mending. But she’s sick with a belly-ache from eating too much eel-pie.”

This trivial information spilled in a rush of embarrassment.

“I’ve been asking permission to see you for days, but Dame Eleanor keeps making excuses—This is the only chance I’ve had—and I need to do something before it’s too late—”

I sat down abruptly on the edge of the hard pallet nearest the door. Distracted by Alan’s hurried departure, the priest stood looking bewildered.

“Why all this haste?”

Wary of others who might enter the guest house at this hour, I lowered my voice. “Since my lady pleaded for her estates, the king’s visited her in Silver Street several times. It’s supposed on the pretext of considering her petition but these occasions are so secretive—and she’s quite infatuated with him—” I paused, hoping the priest would grasp my implications. “Ever since I set foot in that house my dreams have become so strange. Unless I take action something terrible’s going to happen—”

“What have your dreams to do with Dame Eleanor and the king?” Brother Brian seemed more perplexed than ever.

“The boy in the dreams looks very much like the king.” Increasing anxiety drove my speech. “And the place is certainly the Tower. Perhaps the king’s in danger—I feel I should warn him—He’s very easy to talk to—”

“No!” Brother Brian’s eyes widened with fear. “Have you forgotten what happened in the village? Witchcraft’s an ugly word and rouses much antipathy. Even Mistress Evans has suffered recent accusations.”
 

“But I must do something— I can’t just stand by and watch—”
 

The bell tolled the hour, startling me to my feet.

“I have to go.” But still I hesitated. “I’m frightened of what’s happening in that house. I feel so helpless—I wish I were back in the pie shop.” The meaningless babble tumbled from my lips.
 

“That may be possible when Dame Eleanor leaves London.” The priest evidently tried to make some sense of it and hurried after me into the street. Loath to let me go, he grabbed at my hand. “Mistress Mercer tells me Philippa’s betrothed now to the chandler’s assistant.”

“What use is that to me?” I turned on him angrily. “Dame Eleanor’s petition hasn’t been granted yet. And what use are visions if I can’t do anything about them?” His bafflement spurred me to greater vehemence. “Dame Eleanor’s in danger—And I’m sick of being a bystander—I must
do
something—” Conscious of the hour yet torn by my desire to stay, I hovered uncertainly. “Be careful of yourself.” I planted an impulsive kiss on his cheek. “I
must
go now—”

“We’ll speak soon,” he promised, but I tore my hand away.

“Soon,” I said, wondering at the bright gleam of tears in his eyes. Reluctantly I rushed off to the glover’s in Wood Lane. I meant to keep my promise. But as I feared, events decided otherwise.

“The king’s been here again.” A flustered Joan met me at the door. “I’m worried about the mistress’ reputation. Lionel says the king’s a great lecher and has already fathered several bastards—Speak to her Nan. She listens to you.”
 

I wished I could confide in Joan. I valued her judgement. She’d a practical way of looking at things, a common-sense attitude which might have proved useful had I dared voice my own misgivings.

“If we get her back to Sudeley she’ll forget this flirtation—I’m sure it’s nothing more.” I patted her arm reassuringly, picking up the embroidery silks Alison had purchased, trying to believe in my own lies and despising myself for telling them.
 

* * * * *

I found Eleanor at her glass, her eyes full of dreaming.
 

“The king admired my blue damask,” she said.
 

I didn’t answer, but put the silks into her embroidery basket and her gloves into the press.
 

“He said the court ladies are wearing their hair up under tall hennins now.” She loosened hers from its pins and stared at her reflection.

“The king’s an eye for pretty ladies but I expect he’ll be considering marriage soon,” I dared to say as I began combing the primrose fall of her silken hair. “He’ll have the pick of Europe’s princesses for his bride.”

A secret smile curved her full lips. “Ah, but he’s promised to marry no one but me.”
 

I almost dropped the comb. Radiant eyes met mine through the glass.

“A jest surely, my Lady?” My strained laugh bordered on hysteria. “I don’t think kings choose for themselves—”

“You know nothing of love, Nan. Love may do anything.” Tossing her head, she stormed away, fighting tears.
 

A sudden movement in the glass halted me. A shadowy figure in a cape stood by a hearth, the flicker of flames illuminating the jewel-encrusted hem. My sharp gasp startled Eleanor.

“What is it?”

The figure turned. Never had I seen such malevolence than in those yellow eyes. But when the figure raised a severed head dripping blood, I cried out.

“Did you see—?” I pointed at the glass.

Eleanor snatched my hands, her face blanched with fear.
 

“What? What is it?”
 

The glass stood empty save for the commonplace reflections of the chamber, the oak panelled walls, the mulberry hangings, the settle’s arm, the corner of a silken cushion—I laughed without mirth then, pressing a hand to my mouth to suppress the staccato stutter. “Forgive me, my Lady, I thought I saw—” I shook my head. “Imagination. A trick of light. I’m sorry I alarmed you.”

“I swear this house is haunted.” Her widened eyes betrayed unease. “I told the king—”
 

“You should ask the king to grant the return of your estates immediately, my Lady,” I said, gathering control. “Then you could leave this horrible place.”
 

“But I can’t leave yet. His Grace has promised me marriage.” Her shining eyes rebuked my doubt. “You mustn’t say anything to the others.” She pressed a finger to her lips as if to stifle laughter. “We must keep it secret a little longer.”

How could she believe such a practised liar? I almost wept with rage. Everyone in the city knew Edward of York would tell a wench anything to get her favours. Eleanor Butler behaved as foolishly as Philippa in her lovelorn trysts with Ralph Fowler. I’d wasted energy on vain attempts to divert her. Sudeley no longer enchanted. Her every thought fixed on the fickle youth who’d snatched the crown.
 

That night ugly dreams of the boys in the Tower plagued me yet again. This time, not only did I share the terror of the child pursued by the assassin, but the elder boy, crazed with fear, shrieked for his Uncle Antony. His melancholy face, framed with pale gold hair, haunted me long after I woke. He looked about twelve and his voice wobbled with that curious timbre between child and manhood. I knew no more of this Uncle Antony than I did the mysterious Will Slaughter. How could I find out? Clenching my fists, I fumed with impatience, desperate to speak to Brother Brian or even Harry.