Chapter 8

 

 

“Where to next?” Prudence, short as a sneeze in her unadorned blue gown, positioned her horse downhill for an easier mount. She gained the saddle and perfected her posture, her left arm poised like a protective wing over her chest.

Joya had chosen a vivid green silk gown for their outing, one that hugged her curves and blossomed from empire darts into a generous, fluid skirt. Green, her family’s colors, for she felt closer to her family since she had withdrawn from Lord Penry.

She absently braided Goldie’s mane, considering their options in the bright midday sunlight. She had been riding with Pru, Camilla and the old knight, Hugo. They had passed the Maypole, and Joya thought of Lilla, an armorer’s daughter who had been crowned the May Queen. Joya had missed all the celebrations while lost in reverie over the sullen, selfish Lord Penry. Whatever had possessed her?

A week had passed since that embarrassing night in the solar with her father and the family argument between Luke and his brothers. Joya’s self-imposed love spell had lifted and she had returned to the daily pleasures of springtime—hawking, music and friends.

They had finished a mid-day meal in the oat fields, deserted by the farmers as they left their planting to take their midday naps. Crows scoured the furrows, digging for seeds and avoiding the young boys who chased them, throwing stones. Camilla and Hugo had picked their favorite boys and wagered which ones could kill the most birds for an evening stew. Now they rode toward Stephen and Nicole’s village, Faierfield, following the Ten Mile River on their way home.

“Let’s ride to the overlook before we go back,” Joya said. It afforded a majestic view of the fields as far as the eye could see, many filled with ewes. “Maybe we’ll see some new lambs.” Lambing season had begun and Joya loved seeing the tender babes with their endearing, wobbly first steps.

Hugo mounted with a grunt, grumbling about the coins he had lost to Camilla over the wager of which boy would bag the most birds.

They approached a turn of the Ten Mile River and Joya spied a man sawing wood on the Halfway Bridge. He wore loose work clothing and high boots. His movements were compact as he guided the saw, unhurried and precise. He was tall, but not as tall as her father, and . . .

A fluttering tickled her stomach, and the air grew heavy. She had successfully avoided him in the great hall and the solar, but now, twenty yards distant, his presence affected her. “Who’s on the bridge?” Joya asked, already knowing.

“The Yorkist traitor,” Hugo said. “I should run the knave through, but your father warned us to do no harm.”

“He’s loose?” His hair, light in the sun, called up memories of its silky smoothness when wet, the fine hairs on his neck as she held on to him in the water. She swallowed, her throat tight of a sudden. “What’s he doing?”

“Lord Tabor decided he might as well put the traitor to work while they’re waiting to hear from the queen about what to do with him. ‘Twill be good to see his head roll. Until then, he’s fixing the bridge and he won’t go far. He’s been forbidden a horse, and see, there’s Peter and a couple of other knights guarding him.” He pointed to the men, fishing a stone’s throw down the river with a clear view of both Luke and the bridge. “One misstep and he gets shackled, though. Lord Tabor doesn’t trust him any further’n a frog’s hop. And your mother’s given us our orders about you.” His face tightened with a priggish expression that hinted at his displeasure that Joya had befriended Luke.

She turned to him and the face that lived in her dreams, the unexpected sight of him as enjoyable as a French wine at sunset. They must cross the bridge to reach the overlook, and that would bring her closer to him. Her commitment to avoid him vanished in the soft breeze that came up from the lazy river below. “Is the bridge passable?”

“Yes. It’s only routine work,” Hugo said.

“Then let’s go,” Camilla said. She raised a brow at Joya. “You lead the way.”

Joya shook her head and led Goldie to the back, behind Hugo and the girls.

Camilla laughed and urged her horse into a run, clattering up to Luke. “Lord Penry. Fancy seeing you out here, in the fresh air.”

“Good morrow,” Luke said, not breaking the rhythm of his saw. His clothes were of simple, loose-woven flax, brown and ill-fitting on his muscular frame. The sleeves of his tunic were pulled up, revealing his bronzed forearms, muscular and covered by soft hair that shone the sun.

The scent of fresh wood shavings greeted her. The water beneath the bridge rushed against the pilings and made her heart hurry, summoning memories of safety in his arms.

“I’m Camilla. Remember me? Last time Prudence and I saw you, you were in gaol. In chains,” she added wickedly. “Things seem to be looking up for you.”

Luke coughed softly and ignored her.

“And I’m sure you know why.” Camilla laughed and rode past him.

“Now, Cam.” Pru passed, and Hugo approached Luke and drew his sword, pointing it within an inch of Luke’s back. “Traitor.” Hugo’s voice lowered, hoarse with contempt.

Luke neither shrank from nor turned to Hugo, but kept to his work.

Joya wedged Goldie between them. “Not very civil of you, Hugo.” She deliberately omitted his title, a slight to make him aware of her displeasure. “He is a Bonwyk, helping with this bridge. Sheath it,” she said, gesturing to his sword. “Lord Penry is our guest.”

Hugo laughed. “A dead one if he doesn’t pay the queen her due. He can fool you, Joya, but he can’t fool Margaret.”

“My, but the day is burning,” Pru said, watching Joya closely, “Let’s be off now.”

As they approached the end of the bridge, Luke spoke. “Joya.” His voice held no sign of a question, only an even intonation of her name.

Joya pulled Goldie’s reins. “Yes?”

“A word with you, if you please.”

Joya swallowed a dose of dread and curiosity. He had never called her name or sought her out. He was a handsome, heart-stopping curiosity, but they shared no common loyalties or concerns. The queen would soon crush him if she couldn’t pull his military secrets from him. Joya avoided the pull of his blue eyes. “I have had quite enough of your words, Lord Penry; we have nothing—”

“There is one thing,” Pru interrupted, her voice unusually crisp. “I believe Lord Penry needs to make arrangements to return some of your belongings, lost during your hunting trip?”

Joya peered at her. “What?”

Pru angled her horse close to Joya. “Your dagger. He took it from you,” Pru whispered.

“It could be anywhere—”

“You’re in the company of knights and friends, an opportunity to visit with him without being improper. Hear him out,” Pru murmured. She raised her voice. “Of course, Joya. We don’t mind waiting for you. We’ll go down to the river and see if the men have caught any fish yet.”

“Yes, I could use a little rest,” Cam said, trotting her horse down the bank where the knights kept their eye on Luke.

The bridge now empty of all but the two of them, she dismounted and turned expectantly to Luke. “Yes?”

He finished the log, a perfect cut, and placed it on top of the others, skidding it carefully until its end was in precisely the same position, forming an edge to the pile so perfect it could have been one piece of wood.

His jaw worked, as if he were chewing tacks. He picked up a new piece of wood and positioned it on the saw rack.

Joya shook her head in frustration, “You’ve asked for a word. Say it now.”

No furrow split his brow, but his mouth was tense. Not with anger, nor urgency or passion, all of which she’d seen in abundance each time they had met previously. All she saw was a beautiful man, frozen in his tracks, covered in a shroud of uncertainty.

She softened her voice. “Luke?”

He gave great scrutiny to the stitching on the side of his boots. “I must needs tell you…” Scratching a line into the wood with his knife, he paused.

Sensing his discomfiture, she gestured at the wood and saw horse. “What’s wrong with the bridge?”

Relief swept across his face. “I’m shoring the supports,” he said, confident of a sudden. “This is a simple bridge, one span at this point in the river, so no intermediate supports are needed. Only the abutments, but they have been compromised by rot and the current, over time ...”

He saw her smile and his words died away. “I have been rude to you. Harsh.” A full minute passed, but she would not help him with this. It was of too much import to her.

He looked in her general direction, eyes darting the slightest bit, as if wary to meet her eyes. “I’m sorry for that.”

His blue eyes finally settled on her, and she saw his sincerity.

“Thank…” She cleared her throat. “Thank you.”

“What did your friend want you to discuss with me?”

“Oh. Prudence. She wants you to return my dagger.”

“I fear it was lost in the river. If I’m ever freed, I will replace it.”

She preferred not to look into the shadows of his future. She also preferred not to look at Peter and the other knights staring at them, so she walked off the bridge, down a small slope on the bank that afforded a small privacy. She sat on one of the support beams that jutted out from the earth, and he joined her, sitting a respectful arm’s length away.

Silence enveloped them. She didn’t have to ask if he had responded to Margaret’s demand for one thousand pounds, or if Margaret had sent any further messages. From overheard conversations she knew the answer to both questions: no. The impasse could only mean further trouble for him, death likely.

“Thank you for what you have done for me. Speaking to your father.”

“You saved my life. ‘Twas the least I could do.”

“I doubt you would have jumped in the river, had I not stolen you and your horse from the hunting party.”

“Where were you taking me?”

“I would have delivered you safely to a church. I sought only an escape.”

“And Goldie? My horse?”

“I might have had to borrow her for a time.”

She knew the depth of his convictions now and dared not revisit his loyalties, so she remained silent.

“I wanted to apologize before I … leave.”

Joya cringed at his pause. “Leave” served as a thinly veiled reference to his execution.

He could have just as easily left her to drown. Regardless of his decision to support York, she sensed a basic goodness in him.

“What will you do?”

He didn’t respond.

“Your brothers told my father that you have the funds to pay Margaret.” Surely he would not forfeit all of his family’s holdings.

Silence hissed in her ears. There remained no words to be uttered, no hope or solution to be found, but she could not leave him. For some unspeakable reason, she felt a connection. The sound of buzzing broke the quiet, the pleasant business of fat honey bees, their transparent wings whirring.

She noticed the large field of spring flowers hugging the riverbank, and their cloud of sweet fragrance. Above the blooms, dozens of bees and butterflies flitted among the blooms, and under the bridge, two butterflies flew in a dancing figure eight pattern.

Luke’s full, sensitive mouth spread into a small smile as he watched them. “Wood butterflies.”

She wanted more from him, more pleasure on his face, more words. She could smell the wood chips clinging to his tunic, and the tang of his sweat. She followed his gaze to the butterflies, dark brown with orange spots. The common butterfly had never looked so beautiful to her before.

“Look at the male,” he said. “See his black eye spot? How big it is? That means it’s going to be a hot summer.”

“How do you know? That it’s a male, I mean.”

“Because his flight is more graceful.”

She felt her smile vanish. “How can you say that? They fly the same way.”

“And,” Luke continued with a deliberate gaze, “He is the more beautiful one.”

Affronted, she stood and met his blue eyes. “What? Why, that’s the—”

He raised his hands, palms facing her, and laughed. “No, no. It’s the female,” he said. “I said it in jest.”

Jest? She was left speechless.

“I had to,” he said, standing. “You looked so sad.”

She averted her gaze. Did she wear her heart on her sleeve so much? She gave him a crooked smile, trying to recover. “Besides, you can’t tell which one is male or female. They’re probably both female.”

“No. Look closer. See the one with the darker underside? That’s the female.”

“Of course.” She straightened and raised her chin in challenge, her gaze never leaving his. “And she is glorious.”

He reached out to her, clasping her wrist in his big hand, somewhere between a caress and pure possession. His blue eyes sharpened with that look of hunger that she’d seen in the gaol. His intensity seemed to open a door to his soul.

Her legs grew weak, and she leaned into him, closing the distance between them.

She melted into his arms, and it was happening all over again, the weakness in her arms, the dizzying burst of heat melting her resolve.

Joya heard movement on the bridge. With difficulty she pushed away and walked up the bank. She would not let the knights know what they had shared.

As she reached the deck level of the bridge, a woman stood, silk gown flowing gently. She held the reins of a familiar horse.

Joya stopped. “Mother.”

Sharai led her horse over the bridge and hooked Joya’s arm. “Let’s walk.”

At a safe distance, her mother turned to her. “Joya, you put me beyond words. You’ve always been such a good girl.”

“I still am, Mother. I did not come here seeking him out. We needed to cross the bridge.”

And gaze into his eyes, and embrace him.

“Remember, I heard you speaking as you dreamed of him. I forbade you.”

“Of all who know me, I would think you would understand. Do you remember when you first met Father?”

“Joya, he was my life’s great love. This man is wrong.”

“Did you not tell me how wrong it was for you to feel such strong feelings for a nobleman? How you hated noblemen? “

She took a deep breath and twisted her earring. “Yes, but he was no Yorkist. No traitor. He—”

“And didn’t Etti see how you felt about him, and did she not help you spend time with him?” Etti was the old Gypsy – the Rom – who had taught Sharai how to support herself by dancing at the regional fairs. She had also shrewdly contracted Sharai’s seamstress services to Tabor so they could be together.

“It was a business, my sewing,” her mother objected. “A contract.”

“Do you not see how I feel about Luke? Not so different from what you felt for Father.”

“He is dangerous. That’s what is different. I fear him.” Shari touched Joya’s arm, slid down and held her wrist. Her eyes were wide, moist. “I almost lost Stephen to the block,” she said. “Do you know what it would do to me if I lost you that way?” She closed her eyes. “This isn’t about gazes and kisses. This is life and death, and you are getting too close to him.”

Joya met her mother’s eyes, and the bronze face that she so dearly loved. “He is a good man.”

“You cannot save him.” She cradled Joya’s face in her hands. “I will find a spell to help you.”

“Mother, no. Go back to Stephen’s. Help Nicole get better. I will take care of myself, mama. I do not need saving.”

“Oh, but my sweet daughter. You very much do.” She kissed Joya’s forehead, sealed it with her thumb, plucked a hair from her scalp and hurried away.

 

Luke watched Lady Tabor embrace Joya and walk to her horse. The sense of doom settled on his shoulders again. The Ellingham family was fiercely loyal to Queen Margaret, and it was apparent that his presence caused Lady Tabor anguish. Lady Tabor cast a look Luke’s way, her gaze cutting its way through the distance between them. She joined her knights and they rode off toward Coin Forest.

Luke ignored the hard stares of the knights. His closeness to Joya was stirring hostilities, to be sure. But he couldn’t stay away from her.

What was it about her? Her body was the stuff of dreams, certes. The hint of honeysuckle flowed from her black hair, and her eyes, a rich maple in the night. They kindled the oddest urges – to kiss her eyelids, to run his lips across her long lashes, to fall into those eyes and suck her lips, plump and ripe as berries. From the moment he first saw her, when she fell to the ground and rested her lush breasts on his chest, checking his breathing, he had not been able to find his own.

What had happened to his mind, that he would flirt with her like some rascal at court, teasing her about—of all things—butterflies? What had possessed him?

She had been so sad. He could not imagine why this spirited, exquisite creature could care for him. He had stolen her horse, insulted her. But he felt it on his skin, in her soft breath, in those wide, gloriously expressive eyes, in the way her lip trembled. He had only thought to apologize for his behavior, and had managed instead to dredge up yet more of it, grabbing her like some braying mule.

He resumed his sawing.

Now he would never make the rendezvous point, never join forces to defeat Margaret and restore peace and order to England. Hell’s fire, he probably wouldn’t make the summer solstice before Margaret relieved him of his head.

He worried about his brothers, as angry as that made him. He was nothing to his brothers but the brunt of their jokes and cruelty, nothing but a threat to their security and positions in Penryton. Their prestige was of more import than England’s future.

Luke rubbed his face with his hands. Why did he continue to care for such ne’er do wells as his brothers? Why did he feel so drawn to Joya, a forbidden woman? Mayhap he was so devastated with the certainty of his coming death that he had latched onto her as a diversion? Having reached the end of his days, did he see new hope for a happiness that had always eluded him?

He tossed his saw to the bridge deck in disgust. What angered him most in his life were the condemnations of his father and brothers, and it appeared at the moment that they had been right all along. He was ineffectual, powerless and dense.

That may all be true, but he owed York the truth. He must get word to him.

 

* * *

 

 

In Ireland, Dublin Castle rose before Richard, Duke of York, taunting him. The pitched torches stood like sentinels, lighting the gateway and reminding him of another castle, the one that held the throne that was rightfully his. He should have taken it after Blore Heath, but decisive victory remained elusive, and Parliament remained painfully neutral. Exiled in Ireland, York could only watch while Margaret stripped his properties. He shifted in the saddle and turned to his eager second in command, Simon Wagg. Wagg had big ears, a hint of his character, for the young man didn’t seem to let any conversation continue without his presence. He was reading a messenger’s missive. “Was Penry successful?” Lord Penry was overdue to have arrived at Christchurch.

Wagg crumpled the parchment and slipped it into his tunic. “Nay. He was arrested.”

“Sod it.” York shoved his opened palm at Wagg. “Give me the message.” Wagg had proven himself clever and capable, but he possessed a raw edge of ambition that worried York at times.

“Pray forgive me, Your Grace,” Wagg said, hastily smoothing the parchment and handing it to York.

It was as he had said. Penry had been placed under arrest at Coin Forest, under the care of one of Margaret’s most loyal barons, Lord Tabor. And the queen had fined Penry a thousand pounds.

“God’s nails. If he pays that large a fine, how in Hades can Penry continue supporting us?” He shook his head. “I grow weary of the queen’s good fortune.” York stretched, trying to find comfort in his tunic, which seemed to have shrunk. He was gaining weight again, losing his fitness. The middle of May—he would turn forty-nine in September. The crown owed him over thirty-eight thousand pounds, funds he had advanced in the name of King Henry over the years. He wanted repayment, but the harlot Margaret had spent it all to destroy her enemies, mainly him.

York needed to retire Henry without killing him and take the throne. Lord Penry was a secret and vital part of their plan. York had sent reinforcements for him, but not in time. “How can she continue to be so godrotting lucky?” He fisted his hands, wanting desperately to choke the power-hungry life out of her.

King Henry had lost his mind, wandered aimlessly, speechless for over a year. How could he possibly have sired the son Margaret delivered after seven barren years of marriage? True, he had bouts of intellectual clarity now and then, but they were unpredictable and for brief bits of time. He needed to be relieved of his position and allowed to live out his days in peace. That wouldn’t suit Margaret, though. She dragged her husband like a puppet from battle to battle so she could put her bastard son on the throne when Henry finally died.

“Do you think they found it?” York asked.

“The plan?” Wagg said. “Nay. Not the real ones, at least. They found what we wanted them to find.” He referred to the misleading plans Penry had carried.

York prayed their attack plan would work. “Are the Irish troops ready?”

“Yes,” Wagg said, “I sail with them on the morrow.”

“Excellent.” He and Warwick were preparing what would be his most organized attack against the royal forces.

Warwick. Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, the wealthiest and most powerful nobleman in England. If their plan worked, it would break Margaret’s grasp on the royal army, unseat the feeble King Henry and restore order and dignity to England. This would be the coup de grace that would end the festering division and lawlessness of the realm, left floundering since Margaret managed to convince Parliament to remove York as Protector five years ago.

The plan was daring. From France, York’s brother-in-law, Salisbury; Warwick and the Earl of March would sail from exile in Calais to Sandwich, on England’s east coast.

From Ireland, York’s ships would sail into the English Channel and release a thousand Irish troops near Christchurch. Lord Penry would repair a bridge that would enable the Irish troops to travel quickly to London, join Salisbury’s six thousand troops and crush Margaret’s ragged mercenary army. York would ascend to power, retire Henry and exile his foul French queen.

“We need to free Penry,” Wagg said.

York nodded. Penry, an odd man whose voice held an influential power, possessed a strong conviction that fired men’s loyalties. Were he not so reclusive, he would have made a fine commander. York had seen it for himself when Penry was last in Ireland with them. With just a short, impassioned speech, Penry had managed to recruit hundreds of Irish to travel with Wagg to England and fight the queen.

“Wait.” Wagg slapped the saddle, startling his horse. “I have a plan.”

Wagg was building a reputation for military cunning. “What do you propose?”

“Take advantage of Margaret’s reputation for cruelty and revenge.”

“That sounds good,” York said. The queen had been known to kill some of her own commanders on the field who did not bow to her will. “How?”

“We’ll take the Bonwyk treasury. All will believe it’s for the thousand pound fine Margaret assessed Lord Penry.”

“A thousand pounds.” A fortune. It could strengthen his troops.

“Penry’s treasury is likely more, much more,” Wagg said. “Penry’s known to be frugal, not at all like his brothers. Some say his coffers hold treble that.”

Three times. Wagg was offering a key that could unlock three thousand pounds, held by an imprisoned nobleman who would lose it to Margaret, any way. It could buy the new, light German armor for his commanders. And provisions to sustain a march long enough to reach London with well-fed troops.

He met Wagg’s eyes, bright with the rewards of his idea. “You, my friend, are clever beyond words.”

“Then we must make haste,” Wagg said. “We need to get several knights under King Henry’s banners to Penryton … before Margaret does.”

“Tempting, my friend, so tempting,” York said, “But no. I have been patient this long. I am making progress in Parliament. I’m loathe to betray Penry after his support, and contrary to Margaret’s claims, I am no thief.”

Wagg visibly stiffened, but did not gainsay him. Good. But York made note to keep on eye on his zealous young commander.