The Assassin's Wife (62 page)

“No need. Servants have been appointed.”

“But—”

The door slammed. A key grated in the lock.

“We’re prisoners!” The elder lad cried out after the retreating footsteps, despair wailing behind his words.

“No, our mother will send for us, Ned,” A thin shaft of sunlight illuminated the red-gold hair, the bright intelligent face. “They can’t—”
 

With a sinister thud, a ragged, black form fell on to the outside ledge. Fluttering stiff, rackety wing-feathers, it dropped an ugly gobbet of raw meat. A single eye gleaming dark malevolence inspected the young prisoners. Honing its wicked beak against the bars, the bird gloated at their discomfort. Sentry-wise, it strutted to and fro, opening its maw to emit a jubilant squawk. The jarring sound drove the boys together. Huddled on the bed they watched a thin streamer of blood curl down the inner wall.

“They mean to murder us,” whispered the elder. “Just like Lord Hastings—”
 

“Mistress Forrest!” Anne Idley shook me awake. Her sharp, bird profile pecked at me in the grey dawn. “It’s time to prepare the prince for his journey.”
 

Stiff and bruised from sleeping on a hard bench, I rubbed my eyes, heaved the stifling blanket of the dream away.
 

“He’ll never ride,” I said. “He’s too weak for such a journey.”

“Master Metcalf’s arranged for him to be carried in a chariot. His parents will meet him at Pontefract.” She seemed all ice and hard edges—no sympathy in voice or eye. When the physician told me I should travel with the child, a weight lifted from me. At least he’d have someone he trusted.
 

Now styled Prince Edward of Middleham, he managed to walk through the streets of York with his parents, acquitting himself with such dignity and charm the sweating populace clamoured at every street corner to catch a glimpse of the tiny child in his heavy jewel-encrusted robes and crown. They little guessed what this ordeal cost his strength, though he smiled and nodded, his heart-shaped face and luminous eyes winning universal praise.
 

I watched this brave performance through a blur of tears. The child’s spirit burned strong, but no one could hush the insidious whispers:
 

“Was there ever so delicate a boy?”
 

“Why are all the Neville children sickly?”
 

“How is it the Wydevilles breed like conies?”
 

“And where are King Edward’s clever, handsome lads? What will become of them now?”

* * * * *

Back in the safety of Middleham we wrapped the frail boy against the early September storms whining across the moorland, cosseted him with warm, honey-flavoured wine, tempted his feeble appetite with morsels of venison dipped in rich gravy, soothed his restless sleep with gentle music. No prince earned more care or merited more affection.

The queen, briefly in residence at the castle before rejoining her husband’s punishing northern progress, urged me to extra vigilance.
 

“My sister’s son, Edward, must be dispatched to Sheriff Hutton at once,” she said. Her tapping fingers betrayed urgency. “The king desires him to be trained in all the knightly accomplishments and has appointed his cousin John, Earl of Lincoln, to oversee this instruction.”

Little Edward of Warwick, Clarence’s ten-year old son, had been but newly placed at Middleham. He relished the lively companionship of the other children in the household. It grieved me to see him uprooted so soon.

“These boys are too boisterous for Ned,” snapped the queen. Her green gaze confronted me with incredulity. “You, of all people, know the Prince of Wales must rest.”

She plucked my sleeve, urging me away from the others. Close up, I noted the sheen of sweat on her brow, carved angles of her cheek-bones, haunted gleam in her eyes. She held herself taut as a bowstring. I sensed the scream quivering deep within, held back only by sheer strength of will. Never did I admire her more.

“Your Grace should rest too,” I said.
 

Her hopeful smile cut me to the quick. “Time enough to rest when my Ned is safe and well. I have the crown you promised, Nan, and now you must save my son. You’ll be well rewarded for it. Let your Dickon accompany young Warwick to Sheriff Hutton. He’ll profit by such noble training and provide my poor orphaned nephew with a merry friend to cheer his days.”

Though loath to part with my boy, I recognised the wisdom of this act. Besides, Miles would swell with pride at the generous opportunity it afforded. So I thanked the queen and checked my tears. Reassured by Emma’s request to attend upon the two boys in their new home, I said a tremulous farewell to Dickon.

“It’ll be only a temporary separation,” I said, kissing his brow. “And Sheriff Hutton’s just a step from Middleham. When Ned’s well again I’m sure he’ll send for you.”

He hugged me close, hiding the tremble of his lip in my skirts, for Master Metcalf waited with the horses.
 

“Will he be well soon, Mama?”

How could I answer such a question except with hopeful prayers?

A frisson of fear shook me as I watched the little riders disappear under the archway and out through the gate. The pearl grey sky seemed strangely threatening and birds on ragged, black wings circled the castle.

* * * * *

A bleak Christmas-tide beckoned.
 

The king and queen remained in Westminster. Old Walt grumbled at the expense of lavish entertainments presented to impress royal guests, but he drank the cheer willingly enough at the Middleham feast joining the revels with familiar, grudging enthusiasm. As always the cooks served us with a variety of sumptuous courses, and minstrels, jugglers and dancers celebrated the season.
 

“All this to amuse a sickly lad.” He growled, gesturing at the dwarfish tumblers in their exotic costumes. But he guffawed along with the rest at the Gloucesters’ little fool, Martyn, capering for the prince’s particular pleasure.

Fuelled by my reading out a letter I had of Dickon from Sheriff Hutton, Prince Edward spoke of riding on the moors in spring. It was a brief, formal thing, evidently guided by a careful tutor’s hand but especially precious to me. It told me something of his training but best of all, his evident longing to return to Middleham—“I would I might spend the Christmas feast with you, my mother, and watch the revels with my dear friend, Ned.” I think this last line pleased the prince most.

Chapter Seventy-Eight

“Mistress Idley said I might help in the nursery while Emma’s at Sheriff Hutton.” Amy Sadler smiled up at me from folding blankets when I entered the nursery one gloomy January morning. Her smug expression immediately aroused my animosity.

“Well, I daresay you’ll supply us with plenty of gossip to while away these dark days.” I returned her smile with forced cheer.

She sidled up to me. Looking from under her eyelashes, she spoke in a timid, breathy voice. “I’m so sorry about that affair with Bishop Stillington—I’ve wanted to talk to you about it—I never meant to—”

“No need.” I cut her short. “It was foolish mistake, that’s all. Besides, it was a long time ago.”

“Master Forrest was distraught,” she said with exaggerated sympathy. “We were so anxious for him. It’s a shame he can’t be here this Christmas, isn’t it?”

“Master Forrest’s duties are too important for him to leave London.” I pretended interest in the pile of garments in the press so she couldn’t see my face.

“I hear there’s been ever so much trouble in the city.” Her eyes stared round with horror. “The king’s hanging all traitors now.”

“Kings have to be careful.” I thought back to the Duke of Buckingham’s unexpected rebellion in October.
 

According to Elizabeth Metcalf, Buckingham mysteriously aligned himself with the Countess of Richmond’s son, Henry Tudor. “And after the king heaped him with honours at the coronation! Some gratitude, eh?”

* * * * *

“Who is this Henry Tudor?” I asked old Walt at supper that night.

“His grandmother were old King Henry’s French mother.” Walt sneered at the assembled company in the Hall. “She let a butler named Owen Tudor warm her bed after she were widowed—and in the warming of it he got some children on her.”

While the men at the table guffawed along with him, I thought myself back in Silver Street listening to Lionel telling the ghostly tale of Owen Tudor’s execution.

“This Tudor,” Walt gave me a surly glance, “thinks hissen part of the old nobility. His mother’s a Beaufort and thinks herself summat of a scholar.” He made a derisory noise which amused the menfolk.
 

“Aye, the Tudor’s one to watch,” he said, with a face like doom. “They say our Dick laughed when he heard the Tudor means to snatch the throne. But I wonder if he’s still laughing now? Tudor swore an oath in some French cathedral on Christmas morning—to marry King Edward’s eldest daughter when he’s crowned King of England.”
 

How strange,
I thought,
if fate should choose a half-nephew of mad King Harry to undo the House of York.

Talk turned then to the fate of the Wydeville boys.

“Those lads have been moved.” Walt growled his disapproval. “To the Garden Tower or the White Tower or some such place—”

“I heard they’d been sent away from London,” said Genevieve.
She yawned behind her sleeve. “Some say they’re gone to Flander
s—”

“Who told you that?”

The conversation throbbed with speculation.

“They’ve not been seen since summer—”

Unnerved, I left the revels. The prince had fallen asleep and I asked Master Snowden to carry him to his bed-chamber. I didn’t want him to hear such ugly talk. Since his father seized the crown too many disturbing tales festered and erupted like poisoned wounds.
 

Sitting with the cards in my lap that night, I prayed Miles watched over the Wydeville boys with all the care he might have lavished on Dickon. But the Hanged Man gazed up at me, his enigmatic face inscrutable.
 

* * * * *

Storms and skirmishes at sea kept the proposed Tudor invasion at bay. While the king wooed his wavering countrymen with promises of peace and justice, we crouched at Middleham, buffeted by bitter weather.
 

In March, when the first green flags of spring began to flutter, I arranged to ride over to Sheriff Hutton with Rob Metcalf. Just about to climb into the saddle, I turned to see Mistress Idley running across the yard waving her arms.

“The prince is sick.” Panting from her exertions, she dragged me away. “He’s asking for you.”

“Tell Dickon what’s happened,” I called to Rob.

My black woollen cloak streaming behind me, I followed at Anne Idley’s heels, listening to her gasp out the sudden, shocking change in Ned’s condition.

“He vomited blood and afterward he fainted. Now he speaks nothing but nonsense—though he called for you. Antoinette’s gone for the physician—”

All day I watched by the child’s bed. Around dusk, Rob brought me a message.

“Dickon were disappointed not to see thee,” he said. He kept his voice low to avoid waking the prince. “But he sends affectionate greetings. I’ll swear he’s grown nigh as tall as the Warwick lad. He told me that young wench, Emma, disappeared a week or so ago, and no one’s seen her since.”

* * * * *

The crisis came in April.

I’d watched by Lord Ned before, but this sickness was different. The child writhed and squirmed alarmingly throughout the warm spring night as if something gnawed at his vitals.
 

“Surely no child deserves such agony.” Antoinette, the replacement nursery-maid, wiped beads of sweat from the white, elfin face.

Frightened, Anne Idley sent Roger Claxon for the physician.

“How long?” The foreign voice murmured soothingly. The dark, aquiline features inspired confidence.

“Since yesterday. He complained of stomach cramps and a headache. He fainted after dinner time. We put him to bed and I gave him some of the poppy juice. At daylight he began to vomit so copiously—”

The physician took the bowl and peered at the contents. His bronze face remained bland, enigmatic as a mask, but in the black eyes swam a grim resignation.

“I tried to get him to drink some wine this morning.” Head inclined, the physician held the boy’s slender wrist as if listening. “But he took little more than a sip. He asked if he might see his parents.”

The poignancy of the request grieved me beyond measure.