The Assassin's Wife (9 page)

Harry lurked at my elbow, eager to be gone.

“Wait,” said Mistress Attemore, disappearing into the shop.

She was back in a moment and holding a reddish ball under my nose.

“Take it,” she said, with a wink at Harry. “A pomegranate. A welcome gift.”

“What is it?” I trotted after Harry like an obedient puppy.

His laughter warmed me.
 

“Maud Attemore’s the biggest gossip in the city,” he said. “If you want to know anything, just ask her.” He took the pomegranate. “And this is a fruit.” He tore back the thin, leathery skin to reveal the ruby flesh of the seeds.

“Like jewels,” I said, dazzled by this new wonder.

“Sweet,” said Harry, “all the way from Spain.”

We shared Maud Attemore’s treasure as we finished the rounds, and I raced Harry back to the shop.

Chapter Eleven

My life took a new turn. Days flew by so swiftly, I’d little time to brood. At night I dropped into a heavy, dreamless sleep from complete exhaustion.

We rose early, for the bread must be in the ovens before dawn streaked the sky, and I went out with deliveries while it was still warm. The day’s business so occupied me I ceased to think of the visions, and if spirits roamed among the throng in the streets I didn’t recognise them. Instead I glimpsed the wealthy ladies carried upon litters, goggled at jewel-encrusted gowns and elaborate head-dresses, and admired the noblemen astride brightly caparisoned horses.

Harry made me a regular visitor to my uncle’s house, sending me with tokens for Meg. Both families approved this burgeoning love affair, and with three daughters to be wed, poor Uncle Will’s mind buzzed over the next months. Scarcely had Judith celebrated her marriage in far off Lincolnshire, than Meg was planning hers.
 

Philippa and I chattered of it incessantly as we lay in the comfortable seclusion of our little chamber high above the bakery.

Philippa turned out to be a handsome, bold-eyed wench of fourteen or so, who helped in the shop and sometimes took baskets of bread and pies to special patrons. She treated me like a younger sister and delighted in teaching me all the feminine arts. Her knowledge of the latest fashions and city scandals soon won my admiration. I longed to have her easy manner with the customers and secretly coveted the golden hair that tumbled down her back like liquid gold.

“Why do you always braid it?” she asked one night, watching me brushing my own hair before bed. “You should wear it loose.” Taking the brush, she made long, sweeping strokes through the curling mass which hung to my waist, humming with satisfaction as it crackled under her fingers. “See how thick it is!”

“But it’s dark,” I said with a dissatisfied pout, “not fashionable. I wish it were fair like yours.”

She shook her golden mane, laughing as she ran her hands through the silky locks. “But mine’s nowhere near as thick as yours. Yours has such a sheen. See how it gleams red under the light. It’s a shame to hide such curls.”

She arranged it loosely about my shoulders, stepping back to admire her handiwork. “See! It makes those lovely eyes of yours look huge! There’s many a lad in London would be glad to woo a wench with such wonderful dark hair!”

I blushed, making her giggle. Philippa had a liking for young men, and Mistress Mercer teased her about the swaggering young swains who hung about the premises in the hope of a glimpse or a word, but while she chattered and tossed her wayward locks at all of them, Ralph Fowler won her favour. Sometimes, lying in the dark, she told me about him, whispering of their trysts and her hopes of marriage.
 

“But suppose his parents won’t let him marry you?” I asked, excited by the daring tales she told.

“Pooh!” she said, wrinkling up her nose as if at a bad smell, “they couldn’t stop him. I know how to make him want me so badly, he can’t think of anything else!” Her eyes sparkled as she confided the latest intimacy she’d allowed him, laughing at my ignorance. “I thought country girls knew all about the natural needs of men.” She raised her eyebrows knowingly.

Sometimes Philippa questioned me about my country home. When I spoke of it, I realised how small my village really was. But that didn’t stop me yearning for its green fields and shadowed woodlands. How different did the tiny thatched cottages seem after the teetering city houses with their lofty wooden frames and painted walls, how little the squat-towered church— and yet I craved the earthy smell of the byre, the comforting hiss and fizzle of the forge, the familiar discord of the blacksmith’s clanging music. I understood then how Brother Brian felt about his home across the sea.

“Why did you come to London?” Philippa leaned on her elbow, all curiosity.

“My father died, and my aunt and uncle took me in.” I fidgeted, uncomfortable with the memories this stirred.

“But you don’t live with them now.” She eyed me closely. “Betsy told me they sent you away for conjuring—”

“The fortune-telling got me into trouble,” I answered, incensed by the serving maid’s tittle-tattle. “I wasn’t really to blame. Betsy first suggested it anyway. It was around Twelfth Night and my aunt and uncle had gone out. Judith wanted us to play this game she’d had of Betsy—she said if you threw petals or leaves into a bowl of water, a spirit would show you the letters of your future husband’s name.”

“What happened?” Philippa’s eyes gleamed with excitement.

“I don’t really know. I’d never played it before, but I saw pictures in the water and it frightened them. A face appeared and I screamed. There was a great commotion because my aunt and uncle returned early and I fainted. My uncle was furious and accused me of conjuring spirits.”

“But what made you scream?” Her voice fell to an awed whisper.

“I’d seen that face before in my dreams.”

She waited for more but I didn’t tell her I’d know it anywhere by the piercing brightness of its blue eyes and the sensual curve of its mouth.

During the turbulent events of my eleventh year, however, my new dreams set Philippa complaining.

“She wakes me with nightmares.” She adopted a pained expression. “How can I sleep when she’s always talking about murderers or being chased by monsters with yellow eyes, or setting people on fire? It scares me.”

Harry laughed at her grumbles but Mistress Mercer’s watchful glances put me on edge. I grew clumsy and distracted, spilling flour and dropping loaves, until Big Hal turned me out of the bake-house and sent me on various errands in the city.
 

Here, the bustling streets and alley-ways buzzed with rumours of new plots to seize the crown. Tired of weak government, the Londoners insulted King Henry openly now, and nick-named his wife “the she-wolf.” Every day I heard more lewd remarks about her. Fat Marion’s bawdy gossip now made sense. People called Queen Margaret’s prince a bastard but they praised the late Duke of York’s eldest son.
 

“Edward of York’s the handsomest lad in the world,” Philippa said. Her eyes grew dreamy.
 

“What, handsomer than Ralph Fowler?” Harry feigned shock.

Philippa flounced out of the bake-house into the shop, and we listened to her regaling Mistress Mercer with lurid tales about this golden youth. Big Hal shook his head. His eyes twinkled down at me.
 

“I daresay you wenches are all in love with this popinjay. But he’s barely eighteen. A king needs more than fine features.”

“Oh Meg told me Nan favoured the apothecary’s lad.” Harry laughed. “But now I hear she’s fond of lads with black hair. I’ve seen her looking—”

It was true I’d told Philippa I’d a fancy for dark-haired men but I never thought she’d betray this confidence to Harry. My cheeks burned with embarrassment and rage. This amused Harry and his father all the more and drove me out of the bake-house too.

Maybe the unrest in the city generated my new nightmares. Several times I dreamt of men skulking on a shadowy staircase, carrying a bundle lapped in a bloody counterpane, and the man with black hair and vivid blue eyes dragged me onto a dun-coloured horse and rode off with me into wild, open countryside. One February morning I woke just as the horse stumbled over a rocky ledge dazzled by a huge sun-burst—
 

Philippa stood by the casement, shivering in her shift. Outside all the bells were ringing. Shouts and hurrying footsteps from the street below shattered the remnants of my dream.

“What is it?” Flinging on a robe, I leaned out to shout down to a skinny lad in the alley-way. “What’s happening?”
 

“Edward of March, York’s eldest son, has defeated the king and is marching towards London!”

Philippa hugged me. Squealing with excitement, we raced downstairs to celebrate the news.

The Mercers plied their customers with ale that day. Although no one thought the saintly king would really be overthrown, they didn’t want to miss a chance of revelry. Besides, the gossips hailed this victory as a kind of miracle.
 

Maud Attemore, robust in a bilious green gown with mottled sleeves, had a great crowd about her the following morning when Harry and I walked through the Chepe.
 

“Three suns shone clear in the heavens on the morning of the battle,” she said. She held up a hand as if to point them out. The listeners stood impressed, goggle-eyed and open-mouthed.
 

“Three suns indeed!” A jeering voice broke the spell. “What piss! How does a poxy drab know about miracles?”

We turned to confront the beef-faced heckler, a corpulent fellow in a soiled
grey doublet bearing a Lancastrian device upon the sleeve.
 

“Let wenches follow after York’s bastard spawn with the pretty face. He’s not fit to lick Royal Harry’s boots. Didn’t you all swear allegiance to the House of Lancaster? Where’s your loyalty now, eh? Since when did bawds champion kings?”
 

Shouts of support fragmented the crowd. Maud’s listeners grew troublesome, trading insults, their ranks swaying menacingly. Harry’s brows knitted together. He pushed me through the ugly press of bystanders.
 

Though I thought Maud’s tale more extravagant than usual, she obviously believed it. Her bold leer taunted the heckler. “Young Edward of March knelt down before his soldiers and begged God for guidance.” She shouted above the noise, crossing herself elaborately. “Isn’t that proof of the lad’s piety? I tell you, he’s been chosen for great things.” She threw back her head as if to challenge all disbelievers.

“Come on, Nan.” Harry’s arm circled my shoulder protectively, steering me unwillingly from the roars of outrage. “We’ll be late with the deliveries.”
 

“One minute people shouted for King Henry and the next for Edward of York.” I spilled my news to Big Hal that afternoon, breathless with excitement.
 

His eyes twinkled at my enthusiasm. “Don’t pay too much heed. Maud Attemore likes to amuse folk with these stories. But what does it matter? Whoever’s in charge, the poor will still be poor.” He tugged my long braid mischievously. “And the nobles will ride rough-shod over all of us as usual!”

But by March, this Edward was being hailed as king and I was afraid to go to sleep.
 

Chapter Twelve

“What’s wrong, Nan?” Harry watched me load my basket with warm loaves. “You’re not yourself these days. You’ve lost your smile and you look tired and pale.”

I kept my head down. “I’m not sleeping well.” I ached to confide and wondered how much he really knew of my history.

“Why’s that?”

“Sometimes I wonder what’s going to happen to me.” I trailed over the words and scuffed my feet in the dust. “Now Judith and Meg are settled, Aunt Grace’s discussing suitors for Sarah.” I didn’t mention my lack of dowry. Girls without dowries ended up as servants or nuns. I didn’t want to be a nun, but Mistress Evans’s warning, “Beware the nun,” haunted me.
 

Harry laughed. “Oh, some handsome tradesman will sweep you off your feet! Is that what you’re worried about? You maids are all the same.” He tweaked my nose. “My mother says you’ll make an excellent wife and you’re pretty as a princess.”

I smiled wanly but I didn’t dare ask him who’d want a penniless maid? Nor did I mention I’d overheard them saying my mother planned to remarry.

“That’s better. When you smile you melt people’s hearts.” He grinned. “Then they put money in my father’s purse. We need your smiles, Mistress Nan.”

How could I stop myself from returning the grin? Harry knew how much I loved him. I didn’t want to think about my mother or who she might marry. He and his parents were my family now.

“Is this an arrow-graze?” I touched the puckered skin on his cheek, just below the bone, my heart beating fast.

“It is. How did you know that?” His eyes glinted. Dusting crumbs from his russet tunic, he drew himself up proudly. “When I was twelve, I was sent to help my Uncle Robert at his tavern in St Albans, and got caught up in a skirmish between the Duke of Warwick’s men and the Duke of Somerset—”