Chapter 21

 

 

Luke rowed like a man possessed to the north shore, not bothering to beach or anchor the boat. He climbed the steep bank. He must somehow fight his way through the royal soldiers and save the prince.

“Luke! What are you doing?”

He turned to see Joya running toward him from the boat house. “Luke! It's not too late. Pledge to the king. He will grant you audience.”

“I pledged loyalty to Margaret. There is no time for this. I must save Prince Edward.”

“From what?”

“Wagg and his assassin. You were right.”

“Let me help.”

“Nay. Stay here where it’s safe.”

“Where are you going?”

Luke ran up the hill, hoping to outrun her. He reached the outskirts of the royal troops. A soldier stopped him, sword pulled.

Luke held up his hand. “I’m here to help. The prince is in danger.”

“Aren’t we all,” he said, preparing to lunge at him.

“Stop!” Joya caught up, gasping. “Let him pass.”

“Who are you?”

“Joya. Joya Ellingham. The Ellinghams,” she stressed. “Lord Tabor is my father!”

“Tabor,” the man repeated.

“We serve the queen, you fool!” Joya pushed him. “Now get out of our way.”

The man chose to fight.

Luke kicked the back of the soldier’s legs.

The soldier grabbed Luke’s sleeve as he fell.

They rolled down the bank. Luke struck him. The soldier fell and Luke yanked the jacket from him, hastily slipping it on.

“Let’s go,” Joya said. She lifted her skirts and ran ahead. “Come with us,” she demanded of a handful of soldiers. “Hurry. Where’s the royal pavilion? We have urgent news.”

The soldiers pointed and turned their attention back to the bridge, all straining to watch the tension between the king and Wagg on the bridge.

Luke and Joya hurried on. The men they passed gave no resistance because they, too, were pressing toward the bridge to see what was happening. Luke spied the royal pavilion twenty yards away, the size of eight tents, white, royal pendants flying at all posts. “There.”

At the pavilion, they found the door unguarded. They approached cautiously, peering through a large slit between the wall and the door of the tent without showing themselves.

The queen, the prince and four guards surrounded a large table. They were gathered around the subject of their rapt attention—Winton Hawke, the assassin.

 

* * *

 

At the bridge, Wagg watched Luke squeeze his brother’s shoulder and head down the bank toward the boat. Could he be trusted? Hell, no. No one could be trusted. He'd needed Penry’s expertise with explosives and bridges, but he was no one’s fool. He’d put guards on Penry from the moment he left Abington. The guards had built the explosives, and made sure they were mounted on the piers. And if Penry didn’t light the fuses, the guards would kill Penry and light them, themselves. Wagg had planned too carefully to leave it to one stubborn bridgemaker, crippled by demons and clearly under the spell of a Gypsy tart. Killing his brothers had kept him hostile to Margaret, and Wagg had insured he’d light those fuses. Luke wouldn’t risk losing his Goat Boy.

But the bridge would explode, and this battle would secure Wagg’s future. They would speak his name respectfully in Parliament. They would write him into England’s highest chronicles, alongside the kings and earls and dukes. He would become as beloved as royalty. He would be granted a holding, a castle, a country manor. A duke’s daughter in marriage.

A hand tentatively touched his shoulder, and Wagg turned. It was the Goat Boy, his brows furrowed in question. “The king’s cavalry are just waiting in their saddles, and you’re waiting, too. Why?”

The stunted boy must have spent his life in the nursery. “When the king is ready, they will make the first move.” Wagg peered past Hugh, bending down so he could see under the bridge. Three fuses were lit and burning. Good for Penry. He had lit several to ensure that at least one ignited the gunpowder. Wagg’s heart skipped. He had never felt so alive. He watched the fuses progress. They had timed several lengths of fuse, and decided upon a length sufficient to goad the king into a charge. Wagg himself would manage the time. If Henry’s troops started to charge too soon, the Irish would have to push the king’s men back to slow their forward progress. If the king hesitated too long, the Irish would start the charge but feign second thoughts and back off, and the king would pursue. Wagg had placed a small white flag on the bridge rail to mark where the king had to be. His front cavalry would control Henry’s progress so he would be at the most vulnerable point on the bridge when it collapsed.

Wagg assessed the length of the fuses. If the king didn't charge soon, Wagg would.

Goat Boy shook his head. “I don’t understand why—”

More trumpets blew. Sheep’s horns whined. The royal troops raised their voices in a deafening battle cry, and the front cavalry spurred their horses.

Wagg’s heart dropped to his boots. It was time.

 

* * *

 

From his limited vision through the slit in the royal pavilion, Luke considered the risks to the royals.

The walls were reinforced from within with fencing, a good security measure. Clavell wouldn’t be slashing his way through the tent wall to escape. Even with four guards, though, were they a match for a trained assassin? How deeply had Luke wounded him in Marston?

Designed for royalty, the tent measured roughly twenty by twenty-four feet. Clavell stood before three maps, spread out on the top of the long, sturdy table. A royal guard stood to Clavell’s left and another guard to his right, standing between Clavell and the queen and prince. Two more guards stood on the side of the table closest to the door.

The queen leaned over the table top, studying the maps. Clavell pointed out certain areas, describing troop sizes and two cannon, a detail Luke had never heard about.

“Why are we hiding,” Joya whispered. “You said you declared your loyalty to her.”

“Aye, but so did he, publicly. I won’t risk arrest while she tries to sort out which man is telling the truth.” He held a finger to his lips and they listened to Clavell.

As Luke had anticipated, the assassin was feeding them a platter full of lies about the Yorkist strategies. The queen and her men leaned toward Clavell, capturing his every word.

“Wagg plans a surprise attack,” the killer said, gravity in his voice, his posture protective. He made eye contact with the guards and the queen as he covertly grew closer to the prince. “The cannon are hidden below the bridge, in the boathouse. They’re going to wait until you charge, and they will shoot into your troops and—look, see this area right here. It’s the weakest point of the bridge. The bridge will fall.” He expanded his words with a huge gesture, crashing his hand down on the map. “You must save the king!” He looked to the two guards closest to the door. “Now!”

The two guards cried out, “The king!” and hurried out of the tent past Joya and Luke.

Margaret blinked her eyes and shook her head. “No, no. Lord Penry assured me it’s not going to…”

“Listen!” Clavell put a hand to his ear. “The battle cry, my queen! The king is attacking.” The killer shouted. He pulled a vial from his pocket. “This will help!” With a strong flick of his wrist he flung its contents in a wide arc. A fine powder sprayed in an aggressive yellow plume that defiled the eyes of the two remaining guards, and Margaret and Prince Edward.

“Now!” Luke pushed Joya out the door, pulled his sword and rushed toward Margaret and her son.

Everyone held their eyes, crying out in pain from the sting of the foul powder. The killer pulled the sword from the guard nearest him and ran him through, pushing him backward off the bloodied sword.

Luke pushed the second guard out of the way. He shoved Margaret to the ground.

The killer leveled his sword toward Edward.

Luke swung his sword over the table. It collided with the killer's sword, stopping it before it hit the prince. “Now you’ll die, you bastard.”

The boy put his arms over his head and fell to the floor.

The killer stabbed at Luke, missed, and flung the bench at him. It hit the prince instead and he covered himself with the bench as a shield.

“Not today, Penry.” The assassin raised his sword and retreated.

Luke stumbled over the queen and prince. Hampered by too many legs and arms, he couldn’t find his footing.

The killer rushed out of the pavillion.

Joya! She was still at the entrance.

“Let go. You’re not on my list,” the killer said.

Sounds of a scuffling struggle came from outside the door. .

The sound of a fist striking flesh. A woman’s cry.

“Joya!”

Luke broke free from the tangle of bodies on the floor and hurried to the door.

Outside, Joya was on the ground, and the killer was mounted on a soldier’s horse, already racing away.

Luke lifted her gently. “Joya. Are you all right?”

“The knave,” she sputtered. “I tried to hold him.” She rubbed her jaw and uttered a string of shocking curses.

Breathless with relief, he relished the heat of her wrath, the anger flashing in the brown eyes he had come to know so well with their flecks of copper and life. He lifted her to her feet, taking her in his arms. He kissed her hair, her neck, her lips.

And to the south, trumpets blared and battle cries filled the air.

 

* * *

 

The royal forces charged.

Hooves thundered on the bridge deck. Cries and screams filled the air as cavalry spurred their horses to action.

Chaos reigned on the bridge.

Goat Boy ran behind Wagg, grabbing his cotehardie.

Wagg pushed him toward the Irish soldier. “Don’t let him out of your sight.” Wagg smoothed his jacket and straightened his fighting dagger. He would be seen brave and in control, even before the spectacle of Henry’s army.

“Charge!” Wagg screamed the order, and the Irish cavalry advanced. Wagg reined his horse back to allow his men past and avoid the melee.

Henry’s front line crashed into the Irish, horses screamed, stumbling, being pushed backward as the royal charges advanced.

Henry was even with the white flag.

Now! Wagg willed the gunpowder to ignite.

Henry’s forces grew closer. Horses fell, screamed as they were pummeled by the horses that pushed relentlessly forward from behind.

Now! Now! But the god-forsaken fuses continued to sputter.

A destrier collided with Wagg’s and he and his horse went down. As his horse landed, it crushed Wagg’s leg. He heard a terrible snap, a pain that stole his breath and forced him into a curled up position to protect himself.

More pain sketched its way through Wagg’s body. A horse’s hoof pounded his foot, and fresh pain exploded in his leg. Dragging himself through the gravel, he crawled to the bridge and hugged his body close to the deck outside the railing.

Screams of the dying filled the air, a chorus from hell, and still no explosion. The royal forces kept coming, a stream of horses and swords and red banners and death.

God Rot it! “Now! Now!” Wagg cried. There was a break in the cavalry and Wagg caught a glimpse of the south fields, whole companies breaking apart, troops fleeing on horseback and on foot in every direction, royal forces in pursuit. A rout! And still no detonation. The perfectly sound bridge continued to offer passage to every stinking royal soldier. They advanced in a fury to crush the Yorkist and Irish troops.

Damn, damn Penry!

 

* * *

 

Luke placed the benches upright. Margaret had found her son and they sprawled together on the floor of the tent, the queen’s arms wrapped protectively around him. Tears streamed down both their faces, and their eyes were closed.

“Here, Your Royal Highness. Sit you here.” Luke helped Margaret and the prince onto the bench.

Margaret reached out, touching Luke’s face. “Who are you?”

“Lord Penry. And Joya Ellingham is here with me.”

“Penry?”

“We came to help you.”

“My eyes. My eyes,” moaned the queen.

What had the black heart done to her? “Can you see?”

She opened her eyes a bit, blinking pitifully, tears pouring from them. “Aye, thanks be.” She turned toward the door. “Where’s that sod-hearted Clavell?”

“Gone. He escaped. I’m sorry.” Luke put her hands together and poured fresh water from the table. “Try to keep your eyes open and flush them clean.” He handed the pitcher to Joya, and she sat next to the young prince, offering aid.

“We’ll catch the bastard. He’ll be the first executed tonight,” Margaret said. “We were utterly deceived by him.” She turned to her son, dabbing his eyes with her gown. “John, are you there?” she asked her guard.

“Aye. I only got it in the right eye.”

“I can hardly see,” Margaret said. “But I heard someone die.”

“Harry,” the guard John said. “Clavell killed him. Lord Penry saved you and Edward.”

“Penry.” Margaret splashed more water on her eyes. “When did you arrive?”

“In time to help you,” Luke said. “Lord Clavell—if that’s his name or title—was the man who killed my brothers and raided Penryton. And tried to make it appear that your soldiers did it. I apologize for thinking so. My brother, Hugh, survived the attack, and he reported that Clavell and his men were dressed in royal livery.”

“Your brothers were loyal. Who is this rogue, Clavell? And why would he kill your brothers?"

“I doubt he’s Lord Clavell’s son. He’s a mercenary. Wagg hired him,” Luke said. “When Clavell accepted King Henry’s offer for pardon and was welcomed among your troops, I realized that you and the prince would be in the presence of a hired assassin.”

“We are beholden. And what of the king,” Margaret asked. “How are things on the bridge?”

“As I told you it would be. The bridge is intact.”

A soldier entered the tent with a messenger. “Your Royal Highness.” They bowed.

“How is my king?” Margaret asked.

“Our cavalry have crossed the bridge, along with the archers. The enemy troops are dead, surrendered or fleeing.”

“Today is our victory,” the queen said, smiling in triumph through her tears. “Tell the king I must see him at once.”

The men left.

Margaret turned to Luke. “Say naught of Clavell’s attack to anyone.”

Luke thought she wanted to tell the king first. “As you wish. I would ask a favor, if you will,” Luke said.

“Pray what is it?”

“I would ask that you forbid the troops from raiding the people of Redstone. My uncle is the mayor.”

“I’m aware,” Margaret said. “You have protected us twice this day, Lord Penry. Redstone will be safe, and you will receive a boon.” Margaret turned to the only surviving guard, John. “You will say nothing of this to a soul.” She lowered her voice and they continued talking, but their voices drifted away and all Luke could see was Joya.

An inner light shone in her eyes, the copper flecks sparkling amid the brown. Her smile took his breath, beautiful as always, but now bright with barely contained relief and appreciation.

Luke’s heart took wings and he no longer felt the canvas floor beneath him. Surely they must be breathing as one, the two of them, sharing this moment.

Gradual awareness grew of the queen’s presence, and the moment passed. Too precious to be forgotten, he stored it in his memory and returned to Margaret, who had mentioned a boon and reassured him that the people of Redstone would be safe. “Merci,” he said to the French-born queen. “Merci boucoup.”

 

* * *

 

Luke gained passage from the layers of guards and approached the stables. With the total thrashing of Wagg’s armies, the royal armies had found time on their hands. The queen had kept her word and forbidden plundering, instead setting them to the task of burying the dead. Mace, Luke’s own crusty, scarred knight, had rescued Hugh, who was safe and waiting at the boat house.

The royal family had taken temporary residence in his uncle’s home. In turn, James had made accommodations for Luke’s family and Joya in his home. Beds had been set up for Tabor and his knights at the haberdasher’s store, and Joya had been placed in the counting room with Florin.

Luke had given Tabor and his family an abbreviated version of Wagg’s plan and briefly disclosed that he had sabatoged the plan to destroy the bridge.

“You saved the king,” Tabor had said, his voice a mixture of awe and gratitude.

At Margaret's request Luke had not spoken of Clavell’s attempted murders of the queen and prince. Now Luke responded to the queen’s invitation to join her in the stables. After today, there should be no further repercussions to his earlier alliance with York. Still, he approached their meeting with caution. The queen was known for her heavy demands.

He rubbed the tight knot that had formed at the base of his neck. Luke had saved the royal family. For such significant service, he could expect an audience with them, and the bestowing of the boon Margaret mentioned earlier.

But the day had passed without either one, and now this, a summons to meet privately with the queen. In the stables. It did not bode well.

The late afternoon sun languished in the thin sky, and the chilling air had been made foul with the stink of death. Hundreds of bodies littered the riverbanks and surrounding fields. The many Irishmen who had survived, grateful to be pardoned by the king, had fled to the forest lest he change his mind.

Inside, the air improved with the smell of newly stacked hay in the feeding bins.

A fourth guard nodded to Luke and moved a respectful distance away as Luke approached.

In the next stall Margaret wore a cape to protect her gown while she brushed a fine black palfrey, its coat shining with good health and proper care. He heard it had been a gift from the Duke of Somerset, one of the few noblemen who had gained and kept the queen’s favor over the years. Luke bowed and greeted her. “Favorite horse?” He asked.

She regarded him with eyes bloodshot and swollen from Clavell’s attack. “His name is Saber. From the Spanish stock in Troyes. Multiple champions, both sides.” Pride thickened her voice.

Luke observed his fine features and tack. “He’s a beauty.” He patted the horse. “You sent for me?”

“I’m glad you finally returned to the king’s service,” she said. “The Ellinghams were steadfast in their belief that you would.”

Saber slapped her with his tail. She smiled, indulgent, and resumed brushing. “Reports on Penryton are bad. The Yorkists ravaged it.” She sounded too pleased with her report.

Luke dreaded seeing the damage. “And Wagg? Did you find him?”

“Mauled by horses on the bridge. Still alive when our men spied him. Both legs broken. When they closed in on him, he mumbled something about being taken alive. Like the snake that he was, he rolled off the bridge into the river.”

The queen held her neck and grimaced, as if she might have been injured during the struggle with the assassin. “Wagg’s commanders, Lord Harmon and the other one, they were slain by our cavalry.”

Luke reflected. Wagg, self-serving and deceitful, had been quick enough to escape being drawn and quartered, but still suffered a difficult death.

Margaret’s face darkened. “Most unfortunate. Wagg’s secrets drowned with him. We’ll never know how much York knew of Wagg’s plan, but we know this: York is in Ireland, and he’ll be back to fight.”

She stopped brushing Saber. “Which is where you come in, Luke.”

At the intensity in her eyes, Luke’s blood chilled.

“York’s absence today confirms what you’ve told me, that Wagg acted independently. I’ve told no one that Wagg hired Clavell to kill us. Only my guard, John, knows and he's one of my most trusted.” She waved her hand, sweeping toward the bridge. “This incident will be recorded as an accidental clash, not a battle. Henry has won over the commanders and many of the Irish have pledged to join our army. Your part in this debacle is in no way evident to York.”

Luke showed no response. He knows. I sent him a message. Caution kept him from telling her, though. The combination of treachery and sheer will behind those weeping eyes made him hesitate.

She paused. “Now is the time for you to help me. I want you to report to York posthaste. Join York. Learn what he has planned next. You will inform me and join our forces. I’ll give you your own command.”

Luke took an inevitable step into the quicksand, knowing the perils of refusing her. “Prithee no, my queen. I am no soldier or commander. I don’t have the heart for battle. And believe me when I tell you I do not have the disposition for intrigue. I would hurt your cause, not help it.”

Luke had seen the post-battle brutality, royal forces walking among the dead on the battlefield and running through those who had not already died, slashing their way through the human carpet of wounded until nothing but tortured flesh and blood remained. War was unimaginably ugly. “Nor do I have the tolerance for command. I have always been … solitary.”

She straightened, every inch of her small body tensing, her countenance as alarming as the stories men told of her at court, facing her enemies. “You will summon the strength you need to serve your king.”

Luke’s mind raced, turning stones looking for other opportunities to serve her, searching for common interest. “I will build bridges for you.”

“I don’t need bridges. I need leadership.”

The stones looked more promising. Luke turned a few more. “I can give you that, my queen. Not with intrigue, or on the battlefield. I will rebuild Penryton, and offer you my support from there, and at court.”

Margaret slapped the dandy brush in Luke’s hand. “Your brother then. What’s his name?” Her eyes clouded with a growing impatience that hung in the air like a night draft.

Luke ran his thumb over the bristles. He could not avoid displeasing her with this.

“Hugh? He’s—unnerved after Clavell’s attack. He’s not built for battle. Doesn’t weigh much more than your son. We both simply want to return to rebuild Penryton. I hope my service to you today—and my loyalty—have proven my worth such that you can honor this simple request.”

A mean-spirited smile contorted her face. “Mayhap you and your brother are queasy soldiers. So be it.” She formed each word in controlled, overly enunciated anger, her eyes narrowed with a thinly veiled threat. “In view of your service, I would not have you be a reluctant commander.” She tapped the gate with the brush, rapping the wood several times. “You will provide me with a proven commander. At your expense.”

Luke felt the heat of her anger and the underlying threat of absolute power. It could annihilate him and all he held dear.

“And you will serve me. You will see York. You will learn his plan. You will report to me.”

 

The door opened, and Joya approached. Upon seeing them, her smile faded. She lowered her head and held her hands, waiting for the queen’s invitation to join them.

Margaret gave a terse wave acknowledging her. “You may enter.”

Joya opened the gate and entered the side stalls. Her gaze flitted to Luke for the briefest of moments as if to read the situation.

Luke glanced down, hoping she correctly read his gesture as a warning.

Joya bowed to the queen, slightly lifting the skirt of her torn, dirtied gown. “Your Royal Highness. You summoned me.”

“Aye. Margaret studied Joya, her gaze sharp, scraping across Joya’s hair, tangled and uncovered, over the soiled bodice and her muddied shoes. “You freed Lord Penry before I could meet with him.”

Joya blinked rapidly. “It was a mistake. Lord Penry himself has said the same, and—.”

“Your father is loyal. He tried to explain about the—the what? Apricot seeds?” She shook her head. “Deceitful. Reckless.” Margaret gave her a pointed look. “Think not that I didn’t see right through it. You defied me. You had good fortune in that I have been otherwise occupied until you could prove this man was worth saving.” Margaret’s eyes narrowed and she pointed the mane brush at Joya’s face. “I will not have you stain your father’s good name. Do not ever do that again. Never challenge my order. Never.”

Joya began to drop to her knees.

The queen grabbed her arm. “Stand. You’re disheveled enough as it is. Swear to me now. You will never again challenge me.”

“I will never again challenge you, my queen.” Her brown eyes shone as she met the queen’s gaze evenly.

The queen raised her brows, a trace of a smile pulling on her mouth. “Fortunately, you judged Lord Penry better than we did. Because of him, we are all here to tell the tale. Thank you for your part in protecting the prince. I trust you won’t be rash in the future.”

“Pray forgive me, my queen. I was so sure of him.”

“You were right.” She took a step toward Joya. “You have proven yourself.” She removed one of the several rings on her fingers and placed it on Joya’s middle finger. “To your king, and to me.”