Chapter 9
The assassin and his fourteen mercenary knights approached Penryton, a quiet, crenelated manor. Featuring none of the impressive towers and artistic flourishes of more prominent demesnes, this was a big, staid structure, grey with age and hungry for improvements to its grounds and roads.
It rose from the hill on which it sat with a curious elegance. With its sturdy curtain walls, the old fortifications had probably offered good protection for the Bonwyks over the centuries.
The village lay at the manor’s feet, a village neither poor nor wealthy, several dozen homes and merchants—the usual blacksmith, butcher, blood letter and alehouse. As they approached, the acrid smell of pitch mingled with the tantalizing aroma of searing meats, roasts on spits and fresh baked bread. The sun had set, and the people were ready for supper, games, and more than a few tankards of ale.
But the assassin wasn’t here to play, or eat, or drink. Wagg’s orders had been specific: take the treasury, transport it forthwith back to Wagg, and anything else of value was spoils. That suited him fine. He had learned early to put himself first when pandering to the whims and demands of royalty. One privileged whoreson king was as stained and cruel as the next. They wanted a castle for their riches, an executioner’s block for their enemies, good food, good women, good wine. Above all, power. And as soon as one learned to cater to the royal’s tastes, the current king would get his head lopped off and another one would be coronated with pomp and accolades. Same in Spain and France as here in England. He would follow orders, collect his fee and move on.
A gaggle of prostitutes gathered in front of the tavern, threadbare dresses moistened to reveal their nipples. His groin responded, but he resisted. Time for that later.
The whores looked to the banner he was carrying and started chattering. It featured gold lions rampant and fleur de lis—King Henry’s banner. Henry the Sixth—the English possessed no imagination when naming their kings. The banners meant royalty and royalty made the whores smell wealth. They responded with seductive poses and motioned their welcome to him and the knights who followed behind him, also carrying the royal bearings.
Peasants appeared behind them, asking questions of his men. They had, of course, been ordered to ride in silence.
They approached the portcullis, making no announcements, but their slow trip through the village had created an advance notice to the manor, and they were received immediately. Why would they not believe the banners and livery? Any man caught impersonating royalty would suffer torturous execution by stretching on the wheel.
They climbed the steep slope, gained passage at the gatehouse and inner fortification curtain and entered the bailey.
Three men stood at the main entrance, flanked by six mounted knights. The assassin assessed them based on the information given to him by Wagg. High boots, good leather, cotehardies of good fabric—had to be the brothers. Tall and muscular—had to be Christopher. The other, more slender—Humfrye. The third was shorter, lilly-skinned, with arms thin in their sleeves, thin but for his stomach sporting a paunch already. He must be Hugh. With his straggling chin hairs, he resembled a goat. One who spent more time at the tables than on a horse. The third, fourth and fifth born sons. Poor bastards. He had orders for all of them.
“Let’s talk in the hall,” the assassin said. He addressed the Penryton knights. “You will wait here with the queen’s troops.” The assassin’s men formed a wall, blocking the Penryton knights’ path to the manor. He took four of his paid knights with him, but there would be no sword raised against a royal guard this night. The assassin quite enjoyed the invincibility the stolen uniforms had given him.
The Bonwyk brothers proceeded to the great hall, nervous in their furtive glances to each other. Good reason to be afeared; their older brother had offended Queen Margaret, the king in skirts who currently ruled England.
The assassin silenced his inner pity. To succeed, he must fortify himself. He hummed in his head as he always did, distancing himself from their dread, so he barely heard their words as they spoke them.
In the hall, he produced a writ. He opened it, held it out to them, but would not release it from his hands. “It’s a writ of attainder. For failure to pay the penalty assessed by the crown to one Lucas Bonwyk, Lord Penry. The queen has sent us to claim his holdings and remove his treasury.” The assassin read it loudly, intending that the cluster of guards and manor folk all heard the pronouncement and abandoned any hope of interfering. This was, after all, a royal matter. Any insurgence meant instant death or, worse, torture.
The brothers protested, as he knew they would, denying knowledge of the treasury’s whereabouts. The middle son Humfrye grabbed for the writ. The assassin pulled his dagger and stabbed him in the chest.
Christopher lunged toward him and the assassin turned to face him head on, sword raised. The assassin’s knights pulled their swords and aimed them at Christopher’s head. With effort, the brother contained himself.
When Humfrye breathed his last, the remaining guards and witnesses in the hall shrank back, clustering by the fire.
The assassin sensed a sudden movement to his left and grabbed for the short goat brother but he wiggled free, darted behind a pillar and ran away. Screaming incoherently, he disappeared into the buttery.
Sending one of his knights to capture the goat, he turned to the tall, sturdy one. “Let us look for the storehouse,” he said. He signaled Paul, his first knight. Paul struck Christopher with a club and punched him in the gut. He crumpled, and they dragged him down the steps to the lower chambers. He had a rough idea where the armory was. They’d check there first. He sent four other knights into the upper chambers. They were not leaving without the treasury.
The wine cellar was impressive – 20 racks, each with 64 slots for wines, only three racks filled. Sign of a new austerity, perhaps? Christopher babbled about his brother, Luke, how secretive he was to them, how Luke had never revealed the treasure location to them.
The assassin shut out the fear in the brother’s eyes, shut out the protests, the fervent vows. Must ignore any emotions from the condemned ones. To feel for others’ plights meant certain failure.
Two hours later, they still had not located anything of value. Oh, several books. They had cut the chains securing them in the library and taken those, and the best wines, of course. He had run one of his own knights through when he found him coupling with a chamber maid. He would not tolerate neglect of duties. The maid was comely—he would see her later.
Once he realized Chris wouldn’t reveal the treasury location, he killed him—no brother was to be left living—and they searched for the fat little goat. He was nowhere to be found.
Frustrated, he located the mews, took the four best falcons, took eight good horses, set fire to the stables and left. They could sell the horses, tapestries and silver, but Wagg wouldn’t pay a single farthing if they were found out. They had best quit the village while the peasants still thought they were Margaret’s men. They’d ditch the king’s livery and get the hell far away from Penryton before dawn.
* * *
Joya entered the great hall. It was midday, with light streaming in the two large windows. Meagon’s red curls framed her freckled face as she supervised the half dozen maids at the large trestle table. Trays of dried rosebuds mingled with other trays of dried rosemary and orris, the chopped wood-like roots of iris flowers. They created a pleasant fragrance cloud that filled the cavernous room. Other trays on the next table held small bags of colorful silks and ribbons with which to tie them.
Aye, that’s the way,” Meagon said with the same voice of easy authority her mother, Maud, possessed. “Put the old herbs in here.” She demonstrated, tossing contents of the spent sachets into a large bin. “We’ll be giving them to the parish.”
The women washed the old sachets, while others stuffed the clean ones with fresh herbs for the storage chests and bed linens. They worked in a line, each performing their assembling tasks.
At the other end of the hall, women scooped up the soiled rushes and swept the floors of bones and waste from a fortnight of dinners and suppers and begging dogs.
Yet more women balanced on scaffolding above the fireplace and doorways, sweeping the stone walls and tapestries of accumulated dust and soot.
All would be made fresh and clean for the queen’s arrival. She had not yet told Tabor when she would come, but it would be soon, and the castle would be orderly for her arrival.
The dust blended with the pleasant fragrances. Joya’s nose tickled and she sneezed.
She missed her mother and worried about her increasing fear for Joya’s safety. Not having her here—much as she knew Stephen and Nicole needed her—made her wish all the more for her presence. The discord brought a strain to Joya. She wished to please her parents but when it came to Luke, it was as if all stores of her obedience had been spent, and she could no longer do their bidding. Not if the cost was letting go of Luke.
She had stored each memory of the time they had shared at the bridge—his smile, the pleasure in his eyes, the playful teasing about the butterflies. Her heart had nigh burst when he held her. It was as if he were the sun and his warmth had burst from the horizon and reached the depth of her bones. She needed the feel of his skin on hers, of his lips on hers, of his eyes on her, a need that left her constantly off balance when he wasn’t near. With every breath she took, from the moment she wakened until the moment she lay down to sleep—yes, even in the dark she felt his presence and ached to be with him.
She looked at the stairwell leading to the solar. Perhaps he was there. She must see him.
She lifted a box of candles at the end of the table. “These ... I’ll take these to the solar,” she said.
“Thank you,” Meagon came closer. “I took him his dinner earlier. He’s up there,” she whispered.
Joya should suffer some degree of embarrassment at wearing her heart on her sleeve. She might just as well have written it on her forehead, “Mad in love.” Joya had gone beyond reason, and no longer cared.
Martin was guarding Luke. She felt frost in the air as she passed him.
She found Luke in the solar. He faced the light of the window, his back to her, bending over something at the table. He turned, revealing his profile, with that slight dent in his forehead. A pile of small sticks rested in a pile to his left. He selected one of them and worked at something concealed by his back.
She stopped just past the entrance. “Forgive me for intruding,” she said. “I have fresh candles.”
He stood and faced her. His lean legs were covered in brown hose and he wore a dark brown girdle. His vivid blue tunic lit his blue eyes. There was an eagerness in them that she had never seen before, a new comfort and welcome, and his smile sent a shiver of wanting through her. “And I have something for you.” His voice stirred her, rich and inviting.
She approached him, unaware of her feet touching stone as she crossed the room. Her heart grew light as feathery lion’s tooth seeds floating in the air. Finally, she stood before him.
“Here. Let me take that.” Luke’s fingers touched hers as he relieved her of the box of candles. A gentle fire whispered across her skin wherever he touched, so exquisite it took her breath.
He slid the box on the table and turned back to her. “The rain kept me from working on your father’s bridge, so I … I made something for you.” He lowered his lashes, a demure gesture that further stole her heart.
He hid something behind him. She tried to peek.
“Let me explain first.” He took a deep breath, and she sensed the importance of the moment. “I learned to love bridges as a young boy. Pathways—rivers, roads, highways, the narrow trails animals make through the forests—they all fascinate me. Bridges create new paths.”
He reached behind him and presented a small bridge made of delicate sticks of wood.
“Everything about a bridge is good. When I build a bridge, I reach out into the air, into the space between separate bodies of land, and I unite them. I create a new path to somewhere.”
“It’s extraordinary,” Joya said. “And you made it.”
He smiled. “From nothing, I create a support structure—then the deck. It can be that simple, or larger, it can become an advanced study in grace—elegant arches, anchored to the earth with sturdy abutments.”
Joya watched the faraway look in Luke’s eyes, vibrant blue in their passion. His vision. He had opened the door for her.
The model, just smaller than a man’s shoe, featured those graceful arches he had mentioned. He handed it to her with the reverence one would offer his heart.
Joya held it, surprised at how light it was. She raised it, looking above and below it. How his man’s hands could have created something so small and detailed—she could not imagine. “There are houses on it.”
“Aye. It’s a residence bridge. Merchants have their shops on it. People live in its houses.”
“I … thank you,” Joya said. “I’ll treasure it.”
“It’s just a model. I’d like to show you the real bridges I’ve built.”
She swallowed. “I would love that.”
Joya lifted her face for his kiss, heart pounding.
The door creaked all the way open. Martin entered and stood just inside the solar, arms crossed. His eyes were narrowed, disapproving, and he made it clear in his stance that he would not afford them any kind of privacy.
Luke straightened and slanted a look of challenge at Martin, quickly replacing it with an amused smile. Taking her hand, he withdrew a proper distance and brought it to his mouth. His lingering kiss melted the bones in her hand. “Godspeed, my lady. I’ve enjoyed our visit.”
“As have I,” Joya said. Body humming, she carried her gift into the hallway, giving Martin a curt nod as she passed.
* * *
Early the next morning, noises woke Joya. A watchtower horn sounded. Visitors. Who?
Armor, metal scraping metal.
Her braiding had come undone during a dream; she brushed the loose hair off her face and acclimated herself. The green silk drapes—her bed. She parted them. Her chamber was still shrouded in the dark silver that precedes dawn.
Outside her window, the drawbridge groaned as it was engaged. Chains clanked as it lowered.
The sound of a few horses approaching, maybe four.
Men’s voices.
She had seen Luke at the bridge each of the last four days, had eagerly anticipated seeing him again today. She glanced toward her ablutions table where she had placed the model bridge he’d built for her. Still there, reminding her of his talent, but the urgent sounds outside stole the growing hope she had for his future.
They had come for him.
She flung her covers aside and spread the curtains, punching her arms into the sleeves of her night gown. Throwing on an outer tunic, she rushed without shoes past the solar and down the wide staircase to the great hall.
Outside, the air was moist, the earth fresh. Droplets of condensation clung to the railing. The dew-laden grasses soaked her feet as she ran through them.
“For God’s sake, let us pass.” A male cried out, his voice scraping hoarsely at the edge of reason. “I must needs see my brother, Lord Penry!”
Relief wilted her, relief that royal troops hadn’t arrived to execute Lord Penry, but alarmed that Luke’s brother had been driven to raw fright.
The drawbridge gears reversed, and the deck descended to meet with the banks of the moat.
Hugh, Luke’s pasty-faced youngest brother, rushed past, his face twisted with fear. He reached the steps, halted his horse and met her father. Hugh gripped Tabor’s arms, pulling at his sleeves. They spoke a few words and disappeared inside.
Joya ran through the bailey, vaguely aware of the small stones pummeling her bare feet as she raced up the steps.
Above stairs she found Luke, her father, Hugh, and Tabor’s first knight, Fritts Greenlea. Martin and several other guards had gathered at the top of the stairs, too curious to resist eavesdropping, too respectful to come closer.
In the solar, Tabor had seated Hugh and given him a flask of ale. Hugh gulped it in one tip. “I came straight here from Penryton. As God is my witness, Luke,” he spoke through labored breathing, evidence of his forty-mile race to Coin Forest. “They came after midnight. Must have been thirty royal knights.”
“From Covington?” Joya asked.
Luke glanced at Joya. “ How many knights came, Hugh?”
“Thirty!” Fritts said.
“Well, could have been twenty,” Hugh corrected. “They arrived without prior announcement, and it was dark—they arrived like thieves—no herald, no courtesies.”
Luke grabbed Hugh’s small shoulders and turned him so they faced each other. “Was William there?” Luke asked. “My steward,” he said to Tabor.
“Nay. He was at his wife’s birthing, at the midwife’s, in the village,” Hugh answered.
“Why was she at the midwife’s? Midwives travel to the laboring mother’s home.”
Hugh’s face reddened. “She should have been in confinement, but the babe came early. Her waters spilled while she was in the village.” He stumbled along. “They didn’t wish to move her.”
“Did the knights identify themselves? Whose were they?” Luke asked.
“That she-devil, Margaret’s. They presented a writ from her. Humfrye tried to read it and they ran him through. He’s gone.” Hugh glared at Luke. “We told you. We warned you, but you turned a deaf ear. And now,” he swallowed hard, “they ran two of our knights through, no protocol, no chance. They pulled our arms and bearings from the bridge, the towers, from the great hall.”
“You must be mistaken,” Tabor said. “Did they wear royal livery?”
“Aye. They came to raid the treasury,” Hugh continued.
“Take a breath,” Tabor ordered. “You’re claiming the queen’s troops attacked Penryton?”
“God’s blood. Yes. They took Father’s sword collection, the books. The spices. The tapestries—and still they weren’t satisfied. They demanded Christopher tell them where we stored our coin and jewels. He told them the truth. ‘We don’t know,’ he said. ‘Luke has never trusted us with that.’” They slit Christopher’s throat, Luke. Slit his throat and while he was gasping for air, the bastard shoved him to the ground like a slain boar. Chris is dead, too.” Hugh’s voice cracked.
Luke uttered a string of oaths. He looked to Joya. “Do you not see now? This. This is the Margaret I know. When she’s not recruiting men and giving out silver swans to her recruits.”
Joya shook her head. All she had heard of Margaret, throughout her life, had been the struggle of a devoted wife fighting for her husband’s right to the throne, fighting for the right of their son to inherit his birthright. “She would never do this.”
“She cares naught for England or her people,” Luke said.
A rain of protests fell from the stairwell, guards shouting allegiances to the queen and proclaiming the queen’s innocence.
“Silence.” Tabor closed the door. “Were they royal guards? You must be absolutely sure before accusing our king and queen. Were the knights in royal livery? Did they wear the king’s colors?”
“Red as the blood they drew,” Hugh said. “Lions on their chest. Royal killers.”
“What did the writ say?”
“Failure to pay the fine, a writ of attainder. That they were there to reclaim your holdings and collect the treasury.”
“Did they give you a chance to renounce York’s cause? To pledge your faith to the queen?” Tabor asked.
Hugh spit, his face distorted with disgust. “Murderers, all. The leader—a churl, low-born by his speech—he waved the writ in front of us, but didn’t let us see it. He demanded the treasury, and all we did was tell him Luke never told us where it is. That’s all! God’s blood, he even killed one of his own knights before he left Penryton.”
“That’s the kind of men Margaret recruits.” Luke gave a pointed look at Joya. “No wages because she’s wasted the royal treasury. Instead, she gives them license to raid.”
Luke approached Tabor. “They have brutally killed all but one of my family, Lord Tabor. Please give me an escort of two knights. I assure you we’ll go forthwith to Penryton. I must needs bury my kin and fortify my lands.”
“You can’t fortify them. Margaret has claimed them.”
“So you agree. She killed my brothers.”
“She would not do that without warning. She would have sent word to me.”
“Mayhap she doesn’t give a whit about you,” Hugh shouted. “Mayhap she’ll take your holdings next, and we’ll see how strongly you defend her after that.”
“You’ve been scared witless, Hugh. You don’t know what you’re saying.” Tabor slashed his hand in the air. “Silence. All of you. Penry, Margaret has ordered me to keep you here, and I will. I support my queen. I don’t believe she did this. We will learn the truth.”
Joya’s heart faltered. In light of what happened, her father would keep Luke here, waiting for certain death, without a chance to bury his family? Surely there was time for Luke to pay Margaret’s fine before her henchmen came to place Luke on the block.
“Father!” Joya grabbed his arm and walked with him to the cabinet where he stored his maps and court papers. She lowered her voice, showing respect. “His family has been murdered, by Margaret’s own men. Surely you will give him a chance to bury his family. Luke can still pay the fine. That and an apology and he’ll be freed.”
“Would that your mother were here to help you see, Joya. You try my patience with your loyalty to him. You heard for yourself the hatred he holds for Margaret. He refused to respond to her writ, and now he has caused his brothers’ deaths. You think he will now embrace Margaret’s cause?”
“I think he should have a chance to think through it. He has only now learned of it. Please. I’ll—”
Her father’s mouth thinned, and he pulled his arm free. “We are beholden to our king and queen.” He ground the words out one at a time, his voice stormy. “You will stop meddling. You will step back now, and be the perfect example of an obedient, loving daughter.”
His words pierced her heart. “I have always loved you.”
“Show it now,” he said. “Respect your family. Not this traitor, and the danger he brings to us.”
He gave her his back and returned to Luke. “I am deeply sorry for your loss, Lord Penry. I will keep you and your brother safe here, at Coin Forest. I strongly urge you to send word to the queen and make arrangements to pay your fine. Time is running out for you.” He leaned in, giving Luke a decided gaze. “Save yourself.” He gestured to Hugh, whose brow was wet with perspiration. “Save your brother, and save your father’s lands.”
“Fritts, please escort Hugh and Lord Penry to their chamber. Post a fresh guard every two hours.”
Fritts signaled to the men to join him, and they left the solar.
Tabor turned to Joya. “Margaret will judge our loyalty by how we help her with this.” He gave her a sad smile. “A blind man could see that this is hard for you, but I’m relying on you. Your family—everyone in Coin Forest is relying on you to stand with us on this.”
He took her hand, turning her to face him. “This is of critical import to England. His bloodline is good. He comes from a good family, but he is a professed enemy of the crown. He holds secrets that threaten King Henry’s life. Nothing—please listen to me, nothing you can do will help him.” He kissed her forehead. “Your bridge builder will choose his own fate.”
* * *
Joya walked through the field of purple iris blooms, listening to the occasional birdsong from the awakening trees. How, she wondered, could such beauty surround her at a time of such pain and uncertainty? She passed the maypole, now void of the colored ribbons, and stopped at the crest of the hill where the Woodborne Parish Church sat amid a field of white daisies. Far below the hill, the mid-day sun shot fingers of light onto the fields and trees that stretched to the horizon, an endless carpet of spring. The earth released the rich aroma of new growth, but dark storm clouds were pressing in, warning of heavy rainfall.
And danger. Distressed after Hugh’s terrible news and her father’s pointed reminder about loyalties, she had traveled to Ilchester right after mass.
She absently smoothed her hand over her moss green gown. The precision of the tiny pleats at the bodice, so predictable, brought her comfort. Would that her life could be so manageable and orderly. The moss green gown did not lift her spirits as she’d hoped. It was still lovely, though, a style that had to have challenged Sharai’s patience with a needle. The bodice was covered with tiny pleats, with a panel of diagonal pleats that traveled below her breasts, set off with clusters of white buttons at the neckline and wrists.
During her time with Luke in the solar—his gift to her, his kiss—he had revealed his passions. Their visits at the bridge over the last few days had revealed things about him, as well. He was a precise man, the way he stacked the wood, and more than a jot stubborn and rigid. He possessed a sense of humor, and he cared for his brothers in spite of their hostilities.
With time to think, Joya recalled the way Christopher had attacked Luke and kindled the hostilities; Luke had only reacted.
Beyond their differences, though, they were his brothers. What pain it must have been for Luke to hear how they had died such wrongful deaths.
Doubts still lingered about their murders. The brothers were loyal to the queen. Could the queen be so callous? She shook her head, unable to accept Hugh’s account of that night.
Luke was a good man. He was wrong to believe in York, but he was moved by a deep love for England.
Luke challenged her long-standing beliefs with difficult questions. Why did Joya and her family always refer to Queen Margaret, and not King Henry? Did that not prove that Margaret had already taken the throne for herself, leading the king’s armies, recruiting the king’s men, depleting the royal treasury? Killing loyal men? Did that not mean that Henry, mentally infirm, fading for months at a time, had already abdicated the throne to her, when he should have abdicated it to the rightful heir, the Duke of York?
Such thoughts hurt her head. The nun’s condemning words echoed. She had been too stupid to learn to read when she was twelve and now, much older, she still struggled to find answers to difficult questions. Quick-witted men like her father, clever thinkers like her mother—they could see past the puzzling array of facts, and they had concluded that their queen was well-intentioned and good for England.
Now, doubts visited, and guilt burdened her as she started doubting her parents’ judgment. Until now, Joya had never created more than mischief. Her family was the fire of her life, offering light in darkness, warmth to chase the cold, fuel to heat her chamber and sweeten the great hall with life-sustaining meats and breads.
She planned to openly defy them.
Her heart pounded so hard in her chest that it became difficult to breathe.
If she didn’t act, though, thoughts of Luke’s fate terrified her. What would Margaret do to Luke? Torture methods flashed in her mind, weakening her knees. Mutilation. Getting broken on the wheel. Drawn and quartered.
And what of her? If she succeeded with her plans, her head may roll. Mayhap in front of her mother’s eyes.
She had reached the church steps. She pressed the latch and opened the front door.
Inside, Pru, Camilla and George sat at the collection table. Camilla had impressed upon George the barbaric manner in which Margaret had killed Luke’s brothers. She had reassured George that his part in their plans was very small and would have no repercussions for him, but he could save the Bonwyck brothers’ lives—whilst gaining great favor from Mistress Camilla.
Pru had been easy to recruit. She held a soft spot for Luke, and being the romantic, she was horrified to think that Luke would be killed after Joya had become so fond of him. She, too, had been angered by Margaret’s brutality.
At her father’s order Peter had accompanied her here, and his presence had given Joya an idea. She would create a sense of calm. Through Peter, she would convince her father that she had stopped meddling and become, once again, a dutiful daughter. If her deception worked, she would free Luke.
Joya took a chair at the table. To mislead Peter, she must appear sure of herself. It was vital that he believe what he heard them say. And he would hear, because after a few furtive glances and carefully staged whispers with her friends, she knew he would eavesdrop.
“What are you planning?” George asked.
“Wait.” Cam closed the door and checked the window. “Where’s Peter?”
Hopefully in one of the many nearby alcoves, spying. “I sent him to the village on an errand,” Joya said. “We have time.” She took a deep breath and proceeded. “My father sent word to Margaret. She’ll be here on Monday.” She turned to George and did not lower her voice. “We’re going to help Luke and Hugh escape before Margaret arrives.”
“At Coin Forest? You jest,” George said. “It’s crawling with knights.”
“Just listen,” Joya said. “I’m thinking past midnight on Saturday would be a good time. It will be crowded. Lord and Lady Onslow and their household will be there. The Westchester musicians are coming and the hall will be crowded with merchants and townfolk. The gatehouse will be busy watching all of them traveling back and forth from the village.”
“What guards are scheduled Saturday tonight?” George asked.
They discussed ways they could distract the guards, and considered using the tunnel to free Luke and Hugh.
Joya snapped her fingers. “I know where the keys are kept. During the music—that’s when I could get them.”
“I don’t like it,” George said. “Tabor’s knights are disciplined, and he’s no one’s fool.”
“I have to say the same, Joya,” Pru said. “Someone could get hurt. If we’re trying to avoid more bloodshed, this is not the plan.”
“How about this,” Cam said. “Why don’t we petition Margaret for leniency, and point out that she’s already taken Luke’s treasury?”
“Why would she listen?” Joya asked.
“Because she needs us to fight,” George said. “Between Coin Forest, Faierfield and Ilchester there are at the least fifty knights to fight her battles. Find a way to delicately remind her that she shouldn’t be murdering men who are loyal to her.”
“Talk to your father,” Pru said.
“But what about my plan?” Joya asked.
“It’s ill-conceived,” Pru said. “Trying to free Luke—well, it’s dull thinking, Joya.”
Joya’s neck heated. She knew it was said only for effect, but it cut too close to her heart.
“I’m sorry,” Pru rushed on. “I don’t want you to be hurt. And you surely don’t want your father choosing between you and the rest of his family, and his holdings.”
“We’re not criminals,” Cam said. “We’re your friends. We can’t draw a sword or—”
“Speak for yourself, Camilla,” George said.
Camilla gave him an impish smile. “Well, we women can’t draw a sword or fight.” She sobered. “Forget about this. Trust Tabor to handle Margaret.”
Joya paused. Now she would back off the plan, loudly and clearly enough that Peter would hear it and relay it to her father. They would think her friends talked sense into her, and they wouldn’t suspect anything.“You’re right. It won’t work. I was foolish to think it could.”
“I understand your concerns for the Bonwyks,” Camilla said. “I’m loyal to King Henry, but we mustn’t forget, Margaret is French, and you know how they are.”
“Remember Agincourt,” Pru said.
Camilla laughed. “You weren’t even born yet.”
“But we know the stories,” Pru insisted. “The French are brutal. They think all can be solved with their swords. We need to remind Margaret she’s in England. Ask your father to impress that upon her.”
“You’re right, Pru,” Joya said. “Let’s forget all this, and I’ll talk with him.”
“Now, Joya, that doesn’t get you out of your invitation,” Cam said. “Let’s go to Pru’s and wait for Peter to return. Then back to Coin Forest for music and some of Maud’s boar’s head soup.”
As they left the church, Joya spotted movement in the bushes by the cemetery. A sideways glance at George and her friends confirmed that they had seen it, too.