Chapter 19

 

“Luke!” Joya cried. Her mother could never have spun a spell so potent as this one, to know that Luke had come to his senses. The thought danced in her veins and burst from her in a giggle that grew into full-throated laughter. Weeks of refusal from a man more stubborn than winter rains. Endless failure and frustration, but now, finally. Acceptance, and a vow. She jumped up from her seat at the front of the boat, reaching for him. “Finally!”

Her footing failed. Staggering out of balance, she rocked the boat. It lurched, the water surging up the sides. It tumbled her stomach and threatened to capsize the boat.

Luke bolted up, taking a wide stance. He lifted her at the waist, steadying her, his deep voice reassuring. “We don’t want to go swimming again.” He stilled her in his arms, settled the boat and helped her sit down.

She cradled his handsome face in her hands, laughing in delight. “You’ll do it! Thank God! Thank the faeries! Thank you, Luke!” She rained kisses on his cheeks and neck.

His face sobered into an expression of sorrow, and she tried to kiss it away. “Do not worry so. All will be fine now. You’ll see. Oh, Luke! I love you!” She covered his mouth with hers, kissing him deeply.

He resisted for a moment, then gave himself in to the kiss and pulled her close. Droplets of river water clung to his skin and she relished the scent of him, of summer and moist earth and the tang on his skin that was exclusively Luke.

Her Luke.

Her Lancastrian Luke.

She moaned, delirious with relief and the first sense of peace she had ever felt in his embrace. His mouth slid against hers, she thought she heard the singing of angels as she entered heaven.

He kissed her eyes, her forehead, her nose, and hands. “But you must make a vow to me.” His voice had deepened, thick with desire, and he swallowed. “You must leave the bridge. This morning.”

“I will not leave without you.”

“You must. There will be a battle here.”

A burst of wind chilled her back. “Here?”

“Soon, yes. You must quit the bridge. Today. You, your father, my uncle and aunt. Degory, and my brother, Hugh. You all must leave. I will take you to Marston, east of here. You will be safe.”

“And you can come with us, and we—”

His face steeled. “You will not naysay me on this. You, Joya Ellingham, must pledge to me that you will do as I say with this. Your life—my life—depends on your leaving.”

Fear chilled her, burrowing deep into her bones. “What’s happening?”

His eyes narrowed. “There is no time for explanation. You must promise me. Now.”

“Will I see you again?”

“God willing. Now say it.”

“I vow—” She choked, stricken with the sudden return to the familiar, gnawing fear that she would never see his face again. She wiped away the first tear and ignored those that followed. Finally she took a deep breath, gave a shaky exhale, and continued. “I vow I will leave the bridge today.”

“And?”

“Go to Marston with you.”

His jaw muscle twitched. “And stay there until I come back for you.”

She nodded.

He kissed her again, his mouth soft and gentle on hers.

 

* * *

 

Luke waited for Joya and Tabor to join him in the solar. He had returned from the boat storage building and visited with his uncle and cousin on the river deck, explaining that they needed to leave the bridge. Uncle Benjamin refused, saying he would stay and defend his home and village. Luke revealed that thousands of troops were coming. His uncle finally agreed to leave, and he and his aunt were packing their keepsakes.

To the east, the sun broke through the grey ceiling of clouds, promising good travel to Marston.

An object on the far shelf caught Luke’s eye, and he retrieved it. The model bridge Luke had built for Joya.

Joya. Embers from her kisses still warmed him. He thought of how the sun played with the color of her eyes, lighting them from the shade of cinnamon to the hue of copper, and her hair, black and shimmering to her waist.

She reminded him of the dark-winged butterfly. She had fluttered into his life, bringing at times sunshine, fresh air and beauty, and at other times her impulsive nature and best intentions creating unimaginable crises.

She had brought the bridge he built for her from toosticcas, sticks to clean the teeth. Impulsively, she had packed it with her clothes when she traveled from Coin Forest, and somewhere during her trip it had broken almost in half.

With time on his hands, he strode to the cupboard and grabbed a handful of fresh sticks. He could, at the least, repair this bridge. In his uncle’s workshop, he found a small jar of horse hoof glue. Back in the solar, he began rebuilding the model. Working in the tiny space, he replaced portions of the arches.

This is what I was meant to do. Build. Not destroy.

Her words had stung him with their logic and simplicity. She had tried to save him, and he had injured her and her family. Save her—‘twas the least he could do. Save England for her—had he really said that? Had his confidence grown into such arrogance? Forsooth. He could not save her, and he could not save himself. How had he been so bold as to think he could save all of England? Was he not as bad as Wagg?

And she loves me. How could this woman, the most beautiful woman Luke had ever seen, love such a fool? He owed her too much, and he had not the resources to repay her, or give her what she wanted. He had stumbled his way into a nightmare, and there was no escape for him, but he could get her and her family to safety.

She’d called him stubborn. He shortened a stick and dipped it into the small jar. Too stubborn to consider the facts before him. Must he die for his principles, even if they were wrong? Were they wrong?

Her comments about Wagg were the most unsettling, because she had put words to the growing mistrust Luke had been feeling. Because Luke had avoided his uncle’s dinner and all his uncle’s guests, Luke had not seen Wagg, and Wagg had not mentioned being there. Why hadn’t Wagg told him he was there? Was he checking up on me? Suspicions needled their way into Luke’s thoughts. If Wagg didn’t trust Luke, why should Luke trust Wagg?

York’s absence stuck in Luke’s throat like a splintered bone. His brief message from Ireland had been only slight reassurance. Wagg was hiding something, but Luke had no concrete evidence to support it. The man was too vague about critical matters. York would be at the Red Bridge, he insisted, but where was he now?

Joya had accused Luke of being a turtle. God’s blood! The memory of that pickle barrel penetrated his lungs like an acrid smoke, taking his breath. He had never thought about the meaning behind the cruel name; he had merely hated his brothers for it.

He let her words in again. “Don’t be so stubborn. Consider other possibilities.” He shook his head. He liked being alone, but there could be some truth in her words. He must stop keeping to himself. He must reach out to others. A man came to mind, someone who may help him. He plugged the glue jar, set the small bridge back on the shelf to dry, and met his uncle at the front door. “I’m on an errand,” he told Uncle Benjamin. “I’ll be right back.”

 

Luke greeted the guards at the changing house and found James. In the privacy of the accounts room, he regarded the old man. Luke had come to help James save his business, but he also needed information. Could James be trusted? Would his information be reliable?

At the least, he would be more trustworthy than Wagg. Hopeful, Luke ventured out of his shell.

He met James’ gaze, ready to note his every expression. “You have been discreet and trustworthy with my affairs,” he said. “I have appreciated that.”

“Thank you. How can I help you today, Luke?”

“You must keep what I am about to say in absolute confidence.”

“You can be assured I will not—”

Luke held up his hand, palm facing James. “Some of what I tell you will affect you. You must promise me that you will conceal any worry or anxiety that may draw attention to you. I promise you, you have time to protect your business.”

James’ forehead tightened into two prominent vertical creases. “I will be subtle. Tell me.”

“We are on the threshold of battle.” He took a breath. “It will be staged on this bridge.”

James’ eyes widened. “Here. York?”

Luke nodded.

“When?”

“Soon,” Luke said.

“He can’t be here,” James said.

“I have been told he is. I have seen his Irish troops; they are a few miles away. Margaret and Henry are traveling south, for St. Albans and London. York aims to stop them.”

James’ expression suggested he suddenly thought of the repercussions to his business, and his lips thinned. “My records. My clients’ accounts.”

Luke knew well his worry. Wherever there were battles, to the victors went the spoils. If the residents at the site of the battle were unfortunate enough to be on the losing side, lootings and burnings occurred. Margaret didn’t know of James’ support to York, but she was known to allow her mercenary knights to plunder at will as payment for fighting for the crown. James was at risk of losing everything, regardless the outcome of the battle.

“Move your records tonight,” Luke said. “You may store them in the Flinton tithing barn. I have prepared this message for Will Flinton.” Luke handed him a sealed parchment. “Warn the other bridge merchants, too, but avoid panic, and move by midnight. Post only guards you can trust.”

“I hope Margaret’s head rolls,” James said.

Florin jumped down from the high shelf and into James’ lap. James petted him and put him back on the floor. “I am indebted to you. I must tell you, though. York is still in Ireland. He isn’t to return for at least a month.”

An iron ball dropped in Luke’s stomach. “What?”

“York plans to pick up more troops in Calais, but he is still in Ireland. “

“Why would he stay over? He planned all this.”

“York is here, now?” James paused. “Have you seen him?”

“Nay.”

“Who is your source?”

“Wagg, York’s second in command.”

“Second only in Ireland,” James said. “In England, Warwick and Salisbury are closest to York, crucial to his plans.” He paused. “Are you sure about the Irish?”

“I’ve seen them. The plans changed.” Luke’s mind raced. Either York and his leaders had found an ingenious, infallible plan that would end the war earlier, or Wagg was a rebel leader, acting independently and secretly. Would Wagg be so daring as that? Would York make such a big mistake of trusting Wagg?

“I’m sure they’ll both be here, tomorrow or the day after, at the latest. Wagg is sure of the queen’s travels, and that she can be easily defeated.” Luke shook his head. “York said he'd be here. We need to reach him, posthaste.”

“I'll do it,” James said.

“My thanks. I must go. I’m moving my family out of danger. But York or not, there will be a battle.” He struck James’ arm lightly. “Thank you for the information.”

“And to you for the warning. Godspeed,” James said.

Luke gave Florin a scratch on his massive head. “I’ll be back before sunrise.”

 

* * *

 

 

Luke adjusted his armor and eyed his uncle’s wagon. Large and filled to overflowing, it would be burdensome and slow them down during the journey to Marston.

Uncle Benjamin shot him a warning look. “Say no more on it. ‘Tis what we need if we’re to abandon our home.”

“I did not have a part in this decision,” Luke said.

“But you knew of it, all this time.” The look in his uncle’s eyes revealed bitter disappointment.

Luke led them from Redstone, his party of the Bonwyks, Lord Tabor and Joya. The wagon lumbered behind and Tabor’s knights and Degory brought up the rear. Armor clanked with the gait of the horses, disturbing the late morning quiet.

Hugh lifted his breastplate, grimacing from the fit. He was so thin it had been hard to fit armor for him at Coin Forest. The smallest suit sagged on his thin frame, and the helm, a size too large, had wobbled on his head until he finally ripped it off and crammed it into his saddle pack. His hair stood on end from the helmet, giving him the look of having seen a ghost.

They traveled through the Cotswolds, one of the most beautiful parts of England, lovely rolling hills and pleasant valleys, stretching hundreds of miles from Avon to the north, all the way south to Bath. The area was rich from the wealth of wool, a treat for the eyes. The green countryside was dotted with spring flowers, sheep and small villages built with honeyed bricks of limestone. Achingly beautiful in the sunshine, they reminded Luke of his love for England. He wanted was what was best for her. And best for his and Joya’s families. Would that he knew how to accomplish both, and get answers to all the nagging questions about York.

The roads were dry, which would help. Luke could not take them all the way to Marston. He would have to rely on Deg to do so.

Hours into their trip, they crested a hill and a sobering view unfolded. The fields below were splattered with signs of war. Hundreds of tents stretched, far as the eye could see, with large fields roped off for horses, dozens of smoking fires, and lines upon lines of wagons, many filled with arrows, their points glistening in the sun like sheaves of metal, aimed at the sun. Luke recognized the banners—the English troops Wagg mentioned.

Joya gasped and clutched her throat.

Luke extended his arm, stopping her horse. “Go back before they see us.”

They backtracked quickly.

“What is it?” Degory, with the knights behind the wagon, had been too far back to witness.

“Troops. A few hundred,” Luke said. They would move through the night to the Red Bridge.

“At least five,” Tabor said. "White banners."

“Yorkists,” Uncle Benjamin said. “You should know, Luke.” His tone was sharp.

“I didn’t think they would be in this area.”

“Where did you think they would be?” Uncle Benjamin glared. “God’s teeth, Luke, you need to tell us.”

“They’re headed to the bridge.”

“You never told us it would be this many.” His uncle’s voice was dark with accusation.

“I would never knowingly put you at risk. There’s much I do not know,” Luke said. “The sooner we get to Marston, the better."

They traveled with more urgency. As they approached the Marston village gate, Joya turned to him. “I would have a word with you.” She led her horse away from the group and turned to him.

He joined her. “What?”

“Did you send word to Margaret?”

Luke’s mind raced. “I haven’t had the time. I was planning to find a messenger here.”

“You vowed. You say there’s much you don’t know, but there’s also much you do. You need to get word to her. You will seek a messenger here?”

“Aye.”

Anger distorted her features. “You don’t meet my eyes. You lied to me to get me to come here, didn’t you?”

The extended lack of sleep had left him weak-minded. His web of lies and half-truths caught up with him, dulling his senses. Had he avoided deceit? Had he—

She slapped him with her reins. “Leave me.” She spun her horse away and returned to her father’s side, her lip curled in contempt.

Her scorn was a dagger to his side. She had believed in him for so long; why now would she drop all faith?

“I’ll check for a messenger,” Luke said.

“We’ll wait here,” Tabor said.

“Hugh.” Luke gestured to his brother to follow him and they entered the village gate. "I need to send a message."

Hugh made a strange, guttural sound and reined his horse to a stop.

Luke turned to his brother. “What? You look as if you’ve seen the devil himself.”

Hugh angled his horse behind Luke. “It’s him,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper.

“Him? Who?”

“The bastard who killed our brothers.” Hugh’s face was as white as his teeth.

A man was leaving the inn with a woman on his arm, an alehouse woman by the looks of her carelessly provocative dress. By his posture and movements, he looked to be around Luke’s age, average height, but by the considerable development of his arms and thighs, he had spent time in the lists. Based on his black-stubbled scalp, he had shaved his head a sennight ago. His charger was hitched at the side of the building. He wore only a breastplate over his breeches and a short sword was sheathed on his left, a war sword on his charger.

Caution knotted Luke’s belly. “’Tis some distance. You may be wrong, Hugh. Let’s get closer.”

“Nay! He’s an ox, and see his hair. He was nigh bald when he took Penryton.” His brother’s voice was as raw as it had been in Tabor’s solar when he first told the tale of the siege. Without his helm, Luke imagined Hugh felt vulnerable. “He called me Goat Boy. He’ll kill me.”

“I’ll kill him first.”

Hugh’s eyes, wide with fear, darted back and forth. Luke wished he had time to soothe his little brother. He had always been sickly and underdeveloped and had barely escaped this man’s sword. Luke grabbed his brother’s reins so he couldn’t bolt. “Think of your fallen brothers. Get control of yourself. Come behind this tree and wait for him to pass. You’ll get a better look.”

Covered, they watched the man kiss and fondle the woman.

She held him tightly, as if trying to capture him, pressing her body close to him. He wrenched free, mounted the charger and rode toward them.

Hugh’s breath heaved, rushed out in shallow puffs. “’Tis him.”

“You’re sure?”

“Sure as my own name.”

The man lacked armorial bearings—a mercenary. Fury made it hard for Luke to breathe. He would kill this butcher or die trying.

A curtain of white rage rose behind Luke’s eyes.

Luke was no stranger to the lists. He had trained in Ireland most recently, and had proven his skill at arms. “Slow down,” he told his brother. "He has to pass us to get to the gate. We’ll bide our time for the perfect spot.”

They followed him through the village, waited at a respectable distance as he passed the gate to leave. Luke noted with relief that Tabor had taken Joya and Benjamin’s family away from the gate entrance.

Hugh and Luke turned down the narrow lane leading north out of town. They stayed far enough back to avoid detection until the knight reached the crest of a large hill. He had passed a timbered area, and happened to look back. He spotted Luke and Hugh. He spurred his horse into a run.

His charger was large and powerful, but Luke and Hugh rode horses from Tabor’s stables, known throughout England for their speed. Luke pushed his steed and closed in on the knight.

The man grew careless. He jumped a fence, entering a compound of sheep.

The compound included two large grazing fields, each about two acres square, bordered by two small shearing pens and buildings. The assassin had entered the largest field.

The herders ran from the shade of a large oak tree and chased the knight, whistling and calling commands to the herding collies. The men spotted Luke and Hugh in hot pursuit. Sensing trouble, they scurried off the green field to the safety of their shepherd’s hut.

The dogs nipped the heels of the sheep, trying to draw them away from the horses, but the sheep scattered in a roiling chaos. The knight chose to bolt for the west fence, threading through the flock. He made good progress until an old ewe stumbled and fell, causing others to fall. The sheep behind them collided with those in the front. The killer’s horse stepped on the sheep and there was the sound of bones breaking. The mercenary’s charger stumbled and fell in the white sea of squealing wool.

Luke picked through the confused herd and reached the knight. He was dazed from the fall and lay on the ground, surrounded by the bloodied ewes. He shook his head, jumped up. Clutching his war dagger, he braced his legs for battle.

Luke closed in on him and slid from his horse, sword drawn.

The knight raised his sword against him.

Luke advanced. A primitive roar of revenge broke free from his throat. “This is for my brothers!” He lashed out with his sword, determined to cut the man in half.

The knight dodged the sword. “Who in Hades are you?”

“I’m Lucas. Lucas Bonwyk, you swine.”

“Bonwyk. Oh! Nothing personal there. Queen’s duty, you know.” His lips twisted into a cynical smile.

So he knew it was Margaret. “You killed my brothers. It sure as hell is personal.” Luke advanced.

Swords clanged. The knight’s sword skimmed to the hilt of Luke’s sword, jarring his shoulder and wrist.

The knight wore no vambrace, so Luke retaliated with a fast thrust, catching a quarter of flesh on the knight’s forearm. The knight’s face fell for a moment, and he laughed. “You’ll have to do better than that, Penry.”

"I did. I struck sinew." Luke swung again, shoulders rotating, feet dug in the grass for stability.

They struggled, each man measuring, pacing, attacking.

Luke took deeper breaths, trying to see clearly through his rage. He lunged again.

He struck the knight’s armor in his midsection. The metal dented, knocking the air out of his lungs. He grunted and stumbled.

Thundering hoof beats sounded behind Luke.

Hugh came rushing toward the knight. “Kill him!”

The knight looked up. “Goat Boy!” He burst into laughter.

The look on Hugh’s face melted from fury to fear, and he reined his horse sharply.

Hugh’s horse stopped so short that Hugh flew up in the saddle, catching himself before he toppled over his steed’s head. Hugh scrambled back in the saddle and turned tail, spurring his horse away.

The assassin sidestepped to his horse and pulled his sword, never taking his gaze from Luke.

A smile curved the killer’s mouth, taunting Luke. He thought of Christopher, so accomplished in the lists. His brother would have emerged victorious from a fair fight, but this devil’s whelp had used royal livery as protection and cut his brother down.

Luke bellowed and struck the knight’s sword.

Anger boiled in Luke’s veins. He lunged and attacked without fear, eager to kill. Blades collided. Steel clanged. Luke saw nothing but the killer’s eyes and his sword.

The assassin moved smoothly with quick, precise thrusts. He moved well. A message fired in the back of Luke’s mind, an urgent message that he douse his anger to better match his opponent.

A sensation of fire cut across Luke’s wrist.

Luke looked down, saw the deep wound. He returned his gaze to the killer. He willed his arm to keep swinging, and an inner calm came over him.

The killer’s focus shifted and he pulled back to attack.

Luke countered before the killer could strike.

Steel met steel and the killer’s wrist collapsed. His sword fell to the ground.

Pain needled into Luke’s hand, but he held his sword to the knight’s chest, chest heaving to draw air.

The knight placed his arms out in surrender. “Don’t kill me.”

“Wait, wait!” Hugh called out. “I want to see him die.”

Luke held his sword poised to run him through. “This is for my brothers, Christopher and Humfrye.”

The knight panted, but had the ballocks to smile. “Think. Or you’ll never know who hired me.”

Joya’s voice rang in Luke’s head, “How can you be so sure it’s the Queen?” He considered it for a moment, but promptly shut the door and glared at the killer. “You said it yourself, it was Margaret.”

“I said it was the queen’s business. She has enemies. It was not her.”

Luke’s breath came fast and short, the killer’s words sinking in. Would he regret never knowing? By Jove, he would, for the rest of his days. “Speak now, while you still can,” he rasped.

“Nay.” The mercenary laughed softly. “If I tell you, there’s a price.”

Luke held his sword, considering. He could run this fiend through and avenge his brothers now, this moment. But he would never learn who sent this bastard to sack his home and kill them. “You’re a paid killer. I will not spare your life.”

“You will. You will vow to me—vow to me on the souls of your brothers—that you will spare me. Then I will tell you.”

Fury blinded him. “You murder my brothers and expect me to pledge on their souls? Never. Show us how brave you are with your own life, you bastard. Tell me and take the chance.”

The mercenary’s lips curled away from his teeth, and he shook his head.

Luke stared at the paid slayer. Even in his compromising position, the man’s eyes burned, cold and calculating. Luke knew at that moment that he would die before revealing his secret.

It tortured him to think of letting this man go free.

“Lucas.” Hugh shouted from a distance. “Pledge. So we can know.”

Wary of distraction, Luke resisted glancing at Hugh. After witnessing this murderer kill his brothers, if Hugh would spare his life to get the truth, how could Luke kill him?

Moments passed.

Blood had saturated the padded gambeson under the killer’s armor. Luke flicked his sword by the knight’s right ear, slicing him again. “I will give you a twenty-yard lead.”

“Thirty. On horseback. With my sword and dagger.” He spoke his words firmly, but the whites of his eyes showed his fear.

“All right,” Hugh said, still maintaining a good distance. “Swear, Luke.” He paused. “Pray do it now.”

“The truth,” Luke growled.

“The truth,” the killer repeated.

“And if you deceive me, I will track you down and kill you and all you hold dear.”

“You need not worry,” the knight rasped. “The minute I tell you, you will know I speak the truth.”

Luke tamped down the fury that boiled under his skin. “I vow, on my brothers’ souls, that I will release you. Now,” Luke growled. “What’s your name?”

“That wasn’t part of our agreement. I said I would tell you who ordered your brothers dead.”

Fury distorted Luke’s vision. He took a breath to clear his thoughts. “Who hired you?”

The killer met Luke’s eyes and held them, his gaze purposeful and fearless, but his chest rose and fell like high tide at Tintagel.

Silence hummed. Luke found it difficult to breathe.

“Wagg,” the knight said. “It was Wagg.”