Chapter 6

 

The hallway was cool and quiet, the guard at his post, still snoring softly.

The worry lines on Pru’s face had driven home to Joya how much Martin meant to her. They had been friends since Joya could remember, and Pru was almost as close to her as her sister, Faith. Joya had failed both Martin and Pru.

And what was she doing now? Was she seeking out Martin to help smooth things over for Pru? No, she was following Luke’s voice to the solar. She shook her head at her own stupidity.

As she neared the solar, her father and Luke’s voices grew clear and her curiosity flared at what they might be discussing.

Staying in the shadows, Joya peeked in.

A fire shed a ring of light, and a half-dozen candles burned on the massive table where her mother sewed during the day. Ells of colorful fabric stood on end in the corner, and the table now held a chess set, over which her father and Lord Penry were hunched. They sat across from each other, deeply engaged in the game and their conversation.

Luke had cleaned up. She had seen his face muddied and caked in blood in the forest, had seen it wet, dripping and determined in the river, and stubbled and bloodied in the gaol. He sat at the table now, clean shaven, washed, his hair shining and groomed, a lighter shade of brown than she had thought.

His usual scowl had vanished. The sharp planes of his thin face had softened, more relaxed as he regarded his chess pieces. They were drinking a bottle of her father’s reserved wine, stoppered with the oiled cloths of the Benedectine monasteries in Burgundy.

She took full advantage of her shadowed shelter and lingered on every detail.

His face was handsome, complex. Firelight shone on the surface of his blue eyes. His regal nose, ever so slightly off center to the right, divided his long, thin face. His ears, positioned high, made his face seem longer. He had shaved, but left some of his recent facial growth—the beginnings of a mustache accentuated the sensual curve of his upper lip. Oh, she knew what those lips felt like, how they tasted…

What was she doing? While ogling Luke, she had unknowingly slipped further into the room, still in the shadows, but the door was now several feet away, and she hadn’t announced her presence. If they caught her snooping in the shadows, she would faint from the humiliation of acting like a gawking loon. But there was no shelter to take. She sank slowly to her knees, hoping to sneak out so she could re-enter more graciously.

Luke advanced a chess piece and her father leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand, studying the board.

“So. You build bridges.”

“Yes.”

“My Fritham overseer is from your village. He knows of your work on the Harrold bridge, and the new extension you built on the Stour. Word is, you’re accomplished at your craft.”

“Thank you.”

Joya warmed to her father’s praise of Luke. If they could save him, he would be a most suitable match for her, a landed noble with a fine reputation. Fresh hope made her light-headed of a sudden.

Her father straightened. “It appears you’re involved in a very large project now.”

Luke kept his gaze on the board. “Yes.”

His responses were short, curt. From the shadows Joya took comfort that Luke was about as conversational as a wall with her father, too.

Tabor cocked his head and regarded him. “Your father and I spent some time together at court, especially during the tax session in Calais. I was sorry to hear of the fire, and his passing. His, and your brother’s.”

“Thank you.”

“It must have been a sudden blow for you. Not only did you lose your father, but your older brother at the same time. You had established your reputation as a bridge builder, but suddenly you were heir to your father’s holdings and responsible for Penryton.”

“It was.”

Tabor’s mouth puckered in annoyance. “Your family has long been loyal to the king. What led you to change?”

“It wasn’t sudden.”

Her father rose and began to pace, a sign of impatience Joya had known since her childhood. “We have the plans we found in your boot,” he said. “You were going to meet with York. When?”

“You read the plans.”

“God’s nails, Penry, you know it’s all in code! What are you and York scheming in Sandwich?”

Luke said nothing.

Joya looked back at the door. If she could inch her way toward it, she could enter normally and join the conversation, help her father as he tried to talk sense into Luke and sway him to the king’s side. Still on her knees, she bobbed a couple of steps toward the door.

Tabor slammed his hands on the table and leaned on them, towering over Luke. “Speak the truth. You’ve joined York to rout the king from his throne.”

Luke gazed at him, cool and deliberate. “Yes.”

“You won’t live long enough,” her father growled. He stood and looked her way. “And Joya. Are you a young child of a sudden? Haunting the halls in your robe? Get off your hands and knees and come out of the shadows. It reflects poorly on you.”

Aghast, Joya rose.

“From what Martin says, you have a strong interest in Lord Penry,” her father said. “Come hither, and you’ll learn more about him.”

A fresh scowl creased Luke’s forehead.

Joya approached, walking through the heat of embarrassment. “I’m sorry, father, I—”

“You were inspecting the underside of the table, I’m sure,” her father said. “Looking to clear the spider webs?”

Luke laughed, and the men shared a smile of amusement.

At my expense. Shamed, Joya’s face heated so that it threatened to melt right off her shoulders, and she met her father’s gaze, silently cursing his ill-timed sense of humor.

“God only knows you’ve always been curious.” Tabor’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve had my talk with Martin,” he said, his voice sharp. He turned from her. “Penry, you’re yet young. Impressionable. Your loyalties have been swayed by half-truths. There’s still time to save yourself. Help your king, your queen—”

“Margaret is what’s wrong with England. You’re blinded to it because she spared your son from the block.”

“Stay your tongue!” Joya blurted. Her brother had been wrongly accused of treason and spared by Margaret. Stephen was her hero, a fine man with a spotless reputation of honor. “He was innocent!” His humiliation and near death at Blore Heath—that and her deep respect for Giles dashed all affection for Luke. “How can you presume to know anything about Stephen? You didn’t fight at Blore Heath,” she guessed. “Where were you when five thousand good men died for our king?”

Her father held up a hand, silencing her, and turned to Luke. “Do not dare suggest that my son—”

“Is it not true?” Luke challenged. “Did she not spare Stephen from charges of treachery?”

“Yes, but—”

“So she spared him. But everyone knows Stephen was no traitor, was he?”

“No, he was not. All know of his loyalty. His integrity.” Her father’s eyes had grown dangerously dark.

“So she spared him, which cost her nothing, and gained your lifelong loyalty. Quite the self-enriching trade, wouldn’t you say? Margaret is loyal to nothing and no one but her own cause. We have no king. She is the one who has usurped the throne, not York.”

“Enough of this!” Tabor slammed the table, and chess pieces tumbled to the floor. “You seem bright, but sadly misinformed. You’re taking a treacherous path. King Henry is pious. Generous. He established the very college where you studied! He—”

“He’s infirm, Tabor. We need a king, not some Frenchwoman who cares naught for England, one who hires French mercenaries to kill our own people and pays them for their services by letting them raid our treasuries. Our queen,” he sneered the word past curled lips, “…convinced her addled husband to give away our lands—Normandy, and Burgundy fell because of her. She cares only to seat her son on the throne.” His eyes narrowed. “A son who may not even be the king’s issue!”

Joya gasped at the blasphemy. Oh, Margaret would have his head.

His profanities echoed in the solar, raining guilt on his shoulders. He seemed now to carry the pall of death. Gone was the spell of his blue eyes, and she saw him fading before her, his end imminent.

Luke shifted on the bench and gave Tabor a pointed look. “You will not sway me.”

The silence grew. Her father’s gaze remained fixed on Lord Penry.

“Then you will die, young Luke, for those are your choices. Die, or beg forgiveness. Pay Margaret the fine she’ll demand for your treachery. Join us. Help us defeat this threat to our king.”

“If she would but step down from the throne that is not hers – stop dragging the king from battlefield to battlefield, King Henry could rule when clear-headed. When not, York is willing to serve as Protector. When Henry dies, York would inherit, and we would have a strong –”

“I’ve heard enough.” Tabor leaned forward, the chess game forgotten. “Joya, you’ve seen with your own eyes that this man is our enemy. No amount of your charm is going to change his mind. Stay away from him.”

Luke turned to her, an expression of surprise and recognition in his eyes. “Ah, so it was a concerted manipulation.” He leveled a glowering look her way, lids dropped in an assessing gaze. “And methought you liked me.” He used outdated language to taunt her, his voice, low and edged with amused disdain. It cut through her feeble attempt to salvage dignity from the moment. Her heart sank.

“Penry.” Her father interrupted, shaking his head. “Your brothers have sent word. They’ve heard from the queen and they’re coming tomorrow. I’ll show them your plans. Mayhap they can open your eyes to the truth.”

Luke’s mocking smile faded, and in its place grew an expression of thinly disguised dread.

As he did so frequently, he turned away.

 

* * *

 

Dawn came in Ilchester, chasing the night shadows away and revealing hundreds of young men, clustered in small groups by the graveyard. Loud and boisterous, they taunted each other with predictions of who would find the perfect tree for the maypole, and wagered shillings on who, under the forest’s protective canopy, would steal a kiss from the maiden of their dreams.

Hovering near the church, the young women wore gowns of vivid reds and oranges, yellows and blues. Coronets and flowers peeked out from their braids and tresses, their eyes fresh as the spring air. They laughed softly in their groups, tossing their hair, their smiles coy, here and there an occasional sigh as they caught the eye of their favorite young man. A lift of their shoulders, a twirl of their skirts told of their interest in joining them for a walk in the forest to find the brightest flowers … and perhaps the perfect maypole.

Joya walked through the tall grass, brushing the morning moisture from the green blades, the dew running in small rivulets down her hands. She thought of tears and quickly chided herself for gloomy thoughts. Still, she could not summon any excitement for May Day. She looked down absently at her gown—she’d slipped into a tan gown, simple, a plain linen. It would do. She wouldn’t be dancing today. She wanted only to apologize to Pru and go home.

The heady scent of honeysuckle filled the air. Wispy clouds swirled in the pale blue sky like maiden’s hair loosed in the wind, and each secret smile and sensual, sideways glance between the men and women pierced her spirit. It reminded her of the way her mother and father had always been toward each other, sharing warm affection, united by an invisible thread of love in all they did. Joya had seen it when her father whispered in her mother’s ear, in her mother’s soft smile. She saw it between her brother, Stephen and his wife, Nicole, a flash of passion in her brother’s eye at Nicole’s touch.

Giles had stirred warmth in her, and a connection grew between them during their time together. No intense pleasures, though. She had hoped they would become so with time, but Giles had died before it could.

Now, like some evil punishment, Joya had felt this pleasure with the deceitful Yorkist. Why not with noble Giles, and why with the dishonorable Luke? It haunted her, the way he looked at her, the way his arms had held her, protected her in the river. The way he had crushed her to him, covering her mouth with his. Heady and intoxicating, it had made her yearn to enter that wondrous world, made her hope she could share such joys with him.

So foolish. He had led her into that breathless place, only to scorn her later and judge her stupid. He had dismissed her in her father’s presence with a cruel, sardonic smile and cold, distrustful eyes.

Now she saw only Luke’s self-destruction.

More girls passed, seeking their special man. She spotted Cam by the graveyard. She had shed her crusty exterior and given George a smile so gentle it lit her eyes and pinked her cheeks, something Joya had never seen from her coarse friend.

This should have been a pleasant day, a day of teasing both Cam and Pru about their affections toward George and Martin, a day when Cam and Pru would sing-song as they always did, and tease her about her softness toward Luke.

She had hoped he could be here. Had entertained rosy thoughts about flowers and embraces, hot kisses under the cool protection of the trees. Stupid. Foolish. As if her father would have released him from the castle. As if Martin would stop his campaign to keep them separated. As if those kisses, that passion they had shared in the gaol, were real.

It had only been real for her.

Now she hated him, an unrepentant traitor who would soon die, and deserved to. Her heart ached with the loss of that which she had never possessed, and bitterness that the man she found most attractive was no more than a sickness, a tainted fruit that would only make her ill.

From the graveyard fence, the knight Peter met her gaze, his eyes full of hope. He started walking her way. She gave no thought to courtesy but spun on her heels and walked into the church. Surely there was some task for which she could volunteer to avoid him.

Inside, Joya spotted Pru in the north transept, stacking bread baskets. Seeing her, Pru froze, holding her basket mid-air. Her eyes lacked warmth, and she dropped her gaze and returned to her task.

“Why did you leave without me this morning?” Pru and Cam had hurried away from Coin Forest, not waiting for Joya to join them in the ride to Ilchester.

“I don’t crave your company of a sudden.”

“I’m sorry about Martin. Where is he? I’ll apologize to him, too, explain that it was me, and you tried to keep me away from Luke.”

“I haven’t seen him. He’s avoiding me, thanks to you. I doubt my word will ever hold water with him again.”

“Pru, I’m sorry.”

She was considerate enough to come close and whisper. “You left the safety of the hallway and entered his chamber in the middle of the night. What were you thinking?”

“I didn’t think. It’s hard to think with him. I—”

“You said you’d talk to Martin, and you didn’t. You left me to explain why I didn’t keep my word to him.”

“Where is he? I’ll tell him now.”

Pru crossed her arms and backed away. “Pray leave. Leave me alone!”

Cam joined them, her face still flushed. “What’s wrong?”

“She’s what’s wrong,” Pru said, her voice soft to avoid a scene, but cold. “I've disappointed Martin, and it’s her fault.”

“Yes, Joya, what was that about?” Cam asked. “Sneaking into Luke’s room? That’s not what we planned. What a dumb idea.”

Joya interpreted her criticism: you’re stupid. An echo of Luke’s appraisal. She blanched at the accusation. Albeit true, it stung, and anger flared. “I said I’m sorry.” She wagged her finger at them. “This was your idea, you know. I was clear on it; he’s a Yorkist, but no, you two goaded me into trying to get him to switch loyalties.” She glared at Pru. “Fine. I don’t care if you talk to me or not.”

Cam looked at her with fresh eyes. “Say, are you sick? This is May Day, and you're wearing that old gown? It’s pilled, and the hem is worn.”

Pru looked up, blinking. “And your hair!” She turned Joya to the side. “Did you comb the back?”

Joya self-consciously ran her fingers through the tangles in her hair. “I don’t care. I don’t care a whit. And you don’t have to pretend with me; you don’t care, either. You don’t care to know about last night. Martin’s version of it is more important than mine.” To her horror, Joya felt tears betray her. She brushed them away.

“What happened, Joya?” Pru’s voice had softened. “Come on. Let’s take a walk, away from curious eyes.” She gave a pointed glance at the musicians gathered nearby, who were staring.

Joya brushed her hand away. “I’ll try to mend it for you with Martin. But curse your plan about Luke. He’s determined to die. I hate him. Hate him. The sooner he dies, the better.”

“What did he say to you?” Cam asked.

Joya waved her away.

“Well, forget him." Cam tipped her head toward Peter, who lingered, painfully obvious, by the nave. “Now there’s someone who’s shown his loyalty to your father and the king his entire life.” She shrugged her shoulders and grinned. “Why not? He would crow with delight if you joined him to hunt for the maypole.”

She dared not glance Peter’s way. She knew the look he would have in his eyes—needy, desperate, fragile as a leaf, and if she showed any interest in him at all … she shuddered. “I'd rather not.” A vision of blue eyes assaulted her again, and she caged her face in her hands. “What’s wrong with me? I hate Luke. He’s arrogant and stubborn.” He thinks I’m stupid and now he thinks I’m cheap and manipulating. “But he’s still the only one I want to see.”