Free The Assassin's Wife by Moonyeen Blakey Page A

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 soiledgrey 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