Chapter One

 

Marseilles, France, 1426

The sound of strangers’ voices woke Sharai. Ropes binding her feet, she stumbled upright and stood on tiptoe, peering outside the forecastle at the bow of the slave ship.

Dawn. Seagulls called, circling the limp sail that flapped around the main mast. Below that, a blackbird pecked at the body of the slave, Zameel, draped over a coil of ropes, his forehead white with maggots. His neck bulged, black with grotesque knots, more proof that this was no nightmare, that she was, in fact, an unwilling passenger on a ship of slaves and death.

Sharai’s mother stirred, her eyelids red and swollen. “Ves’ tacha,” she rasped in Romani. My beloved. “What is it, my little Faerie?”

“Shh.” Sharai put her fingers gently to her mother’s lips.

“. . . and touch nothing!” A man’s voice commanded from outside the ship on the port side. Heavy footsteps sounded as men jumped on board. “If anyone still lives, kill them.”

Fresh terror seized her chest. All the crew and slaves had died, all but Sharai, her mother, and the captain, who lay still at her feet. He had been delirious these last few days, but still able to navigate to Marseilles where he had planned to sell forty healthy slaves.

Sharai checked the captain but he didn’t stir, nor did he breathe. He must have died during the night. She pulled his dagger from a sheath at his side. Its blade had been recently sharpened and its ivory handle had been delicately carved with a bird in flight. She gripped it tightly.

Footsteps sounded on deck and she knelt by her mother. “Feign dead,” Sharai whispered. Not a hard task, for they were close to it. The bug-ridden biscuits had run out days ago, and they had been living on ale, wine, and rancid meat.

“Mother of God,” exclaimed a man. “Slaves. Gypsy slaves, dozens of them.”

“There’s more below deck,” said another. “What stench!” He gagged and retched, and the dull splashing of vomit followed.

Sharai’s throat constricted from the sound and a cockroach crawled up her neck, but she willed herself to remain still.

“See the lumps. Plague!”

“Get off the ship! Burn it!”

Liquid splattered on the deck, followed by a whooshing sound. The rope ladder creaked and the men’s voices diminished.

Sharai risked checking. “They have gone.” Using the captain’s fine dagger she severed the ropes that bound her and her mother’s feet. “The shoreline is but a hundred yards away. We must swim to safety.”

“Curse Murat,” her mother said of Sharai’s uncle, who had betrayed them. “I cannot swim, Faerie,” she said. “I have no strength. Go without me.”

“Never!” She lifted her mother’s chin. “I will help you.”

“You are but eight summers. I will drown you. Go!”

Sharai half-carried, half-dragged her mother down the ladder from the forecastle to the main deck. She grabbed a small wine barrel and dumped it, and the musty odor of tainted wine filled the air. “I cannot leave you here,” she told her mother, and handed her the empty barrel. “Hold onto this and you will stay afloat.”

Wind whipped their faces with the stench of burning flesh and the heat of hell. Rushing past the flames, they climbed over the railing. Sharai slashed the last remnant of rope from her ankles and dove into the water, imploring the good spirits for safety.

 

* * *

 

Hampshire, England, August 1430

His chest wound throbbing, Richard Ellingham, younger brother of William, Baron Tabor, leaned against the metal gate leading into the armory. The tang of blood and burned hair blended with the odor of rusting metal. Coin Forest Castle was under siege, and uncertainty burned into his flesh as surely as the pitch-laden arrows had. He fought the darkness that came in waves and threatened to carry him away.

Cyrill, his knight, fell against Richard, his lined face creased in pain. “The Hungerford knights have breached the curtain. God's blood, and your father barely cold in his grave.”

Richard steadied him. “Their claim is false, but their swords are not.”

Richard's brother, William, hurried down the steps to join them, his expression lacking all traces of his usual confidence. At twenty-one, he was short but able-bodied, a fitting lord of the castle. “All is lost.”

Richard rested a hand on his brother’s armored shoulder. “We did our best. We must leave. To the tunnel,” he said. “Now.”

“Can’t.” William backed against the stone wall. “They’ve cut us off.”

“Then the armory.” Richard opened the gate. “Come on!”

William rushed ahead and a dozen of their men hurried into the armory, the sight of their gold and green livery reassuring.

Aurora, his brother's wife, ran to Richard, grabbing his arm. Her red hair tangled past her shoulders and fear glittered in her eyes. “They've taken the keep!”

A rush of forbidden love pulsed to the surface. Richard would wrap his arms around her, shield her from the fear, but as always he honored his brother and held back. He took her arm to guide her. “You must hide.” Despite her protests, he pushed her behind a shelf of broken armor, stuffing the folds of her skirt behind the wood.

She struggled. “I’m going with you.”

“We’re outnumbered. Stay here. Be silent.”

Across the chamber, Cyrill and his men swung the gate shut.

Behind them the enemy's footfalls echoed in the stairwell as they clambered down from the great hall. One knight slipped on the stairs, made wet from the rains. The knave recovered and joined the rest of them, a wall of black and white liveried knights. They turned their shoulders against the gate, ramming it to keep Richard's men from homing the lock. The black and white devils broke through and the gate collapsed. Grunts and shouts of pain from both sides echoed in the damp chamber.

Three of the attackers advanced into the armory, downing four of the defending knights, leaving less than a dozen to hold the castle.

From the adjoining, smaller chamber William appeared, driven backward by Rauf, Hungerford's son, more evil by far than his father. Metal clanged and Rauf's sword struck William's flesh with a wet thud. William's armor broke free at the shoulder and exposed his hauberk, glistening with blood, and a second knight advanced on him.

A primitive shout filled the chamber, and Richard recognized it as his own. He ran to his brother, sword at the ready, but the narrow doorway offered no room to swing it. He shoved his sword sideways, blocking the tall knight's attack on William.

Richard drew his dagger and cleaved it into the tall knight's neck.

The Hungerford knight froze. His sword, poised to strike William, dropped from his hand and he fell.

The meaty-faced Rauf swung again at William, missing.

William smashed an armored fist into Rauf's face, driving him back. “Thanks, brother.” William lunged forward, following the press of enemy knights to the fireplace.

Richard saw movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned and a swinging mace rushed toward him.

He ducked.

The mace grazed his face, shaking his skull and jolting Richard into a dull senselessness. Blood pumped down his face. He fell, and the stone floor punished him, cold and unyielding. Death would come to him on this day. Blackness overwhelmed him.

A firm hand pulled at him. “Richard. We must away.” His knight, Cyrill.

Richard managed to lift an eyelid. His stiff limbs made movement difficult, but he was still alive.

He listened, hearing no more clanging of armor. Torches hissed, and somewhere nearby metal scraped on stone. The sick sweet smell of blood mixed with the stench of sweat, and pain throbbed like devil's fire in his ears and teeth.

The fighting had stopped. Gingerly touching his left eye, he found it swollen shut. Of the Coin Forest men, only Cyrill was with him. Richard looked past him, deeper into the chamber. Black and white clad bodies littered the floor, but there was one, a stout one, in gold and green. One of theirs. Richard crawled to his side. His brother, William.

“Nay!” He gestured to Cyrill. “Give me light!” He raised his brother's head, but William's gaze was unseeing. A part of him had hated William for taking Aurora from him, but Richard loved his brother. Gone in his arms. Sweet Mary. Richard closed his eyes to stop the pain.

“Help me.” Aurora’s voice was tight with pain.

Richard gently rested William’s head on the floor and hurried to the skirted form on the floor in the corner.

Aurora rolled to her side. Her hair pressed against her neck, matted with blood. In the torchlight he caught the muted green in her eyes, framed with a sheen of tears.

He propped her with his left arm. He moved her hand from her side, saw her life's blood pumping down her bodice.

Fresh pain sliced through him. Not her. No.

She shook her head. “I’m sorry.”

“No. No apologies.” Despite his love for her, she had chosen William instead of him.

She offered her hand and he took it. A tremulous sigh slipped between her parted lips. Her head dropped, and her hand relaxed in his.

He felt love slipping away, and his breath caught. “No!”

Her suffering over, she sank back on his arm.

Richard tried to swallow the pain that stuck in his throat like a sharp rock. He smoothed Aurora's curls back from her face and closed her eyes, laying her head gently on the stone floor. He took a breath so deep it caused his chest to throb again.

He looked around the keep, at the blood soaked bodies and fallen swords. Could he have prevented this slaughter? He'd sensed trouble coming from that pig Hungerford and had tried to warn his brother. “I should have been more insistent that William increase the guards. I should have kept after him.”

Footsteps clamored on the stairwell above. More men coming.

“Don’t blame yourself,” Cyrill said. “We must go.”

“I cannot leave her.”

“You must. Hungerford’s men were called above, but they’ll be back soon. We can access the tunnel now.”

Richard stumbled down the circular steps, past the storehouse and treasury and into the dungeon.

Just a handful of his men were waiting there.

Richard gestured toward a small, inconspicuous hallway. “Follow me.” The hall led to an inner chamber. Aided by the knights, Richard moved the stone that blocked the doorway. He met the loyal gazes of his four remaining men, their brows glistening with sweat and blood beneath their armor. “Go.”

They squeezed past the stone, their torches flickering in the revealed passageway. Behind them, they pushed the stone shut, closing the exit.

The low tunnel smelled of wet earth and mildew, and a chill brushed his face with each step.

Cyrill stabbed the torch into the darkness.

Spider webs snagged Richard's face. He brushed them off, moaning from the pain of touching his burned skin. He stumbled again, and sharp stones tore at his shoulder. “My eyes.” Even his good one had swollen shut.

Cyrill placed Richard's hand on his shoulder. “Hold on.”

One foot in front of another. Uneven steps, slippery footing, floor muddied from the heavy summer rains.

Occasional drips of water, the light splattering sounds of scurrying rats.

“The passageway is narrowing. Take care,” Cyrill warned.

Richard fought the dizziness. Through the pounding of his head he sensed the tunnel dropping steeply.

Cyrill halted. “Bloody pox.”

Richard pulled his eyelid open to see. Ahead of them, water sparkled off the torch's light. “God's bones. The rains have flooded the passage.”

“We're trapped.” Cyrill walked knee deep into the water. “’Tis a steep bank down.”

Richard looked back the way they had come. “Hungerford's men are closing in. There's no going back.” Richard removed his damaged breastplate, then his helm and leg guards. He nodded to Cyrill and the others to do the same.

Shed of their armor, they stood facing the lazy sparkle of light that wriggled, mesmerizing, on the black water's surface.

Cyrill's breath came in shallow puffs. “How long before the path rises again so we can breathe?”

Richard stared at their inky obstacle, swirling, taunting him for his hesitation. “I don’t remember.”

The youngest knight, John, stepped forward, his yellow hair matted with blood and sweat. “Don’t try it. William's gone, so you’re Lord of Coin Forest now, Richard. We can’t lose you, too.”

Cyrill stepped forward. “He's right, my lord. You’re the last son, the last hope.” His knight rested his hand on his shoulder. “Richard, Baron of Tabor. Lord Tabor.”

Tabor. Richard felt of a sudden older than his nineteen years. “If we don’t escape soon, we’ll be dead and in a place where titles don’t matter.”

His greying eyebrows furrowed, Cyrill looked to him for a decision.

The sound of clanging armor echoed in the darkness from which they'd come. Enemy knights swarmed closer, thick as hounds on a downed boar. To remain would be suicide.

Torchlight danced across the water, a winking surface that masked the perils that might lie beneath. Guards routinely checked the tunnel, but they had never reported flooding. The skies had spilled rain for more than a sennight, and now this. He regarded his sword, the curved handle, crafted for his large hands, the fine blade. “This will weigh me down.” He placed it in a niche above the rough stones and hoped to reclaim it someday.

He gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile to his knights. “Time for baptism, men.” Taking a deep, painful breath, he sank into the dark water.

 

* * *

 

At next morning's first light, they reached St. Giles’ Fair, just outside Winchester. Cyrill led Tabor to a bed in a large storage tent near the Gypsy dancers’ wagons. Three knights had refused to swim the flooded tunnel and stayed back to fight to their deaths. Tabor, Cyrill, and John made it through the tunnel to safety and then traveled through the night to the large fair where desperate men could disappear amid the crowds of buyers, sellers, and thieves.

Cyrill pulled the blanket from the bed and gestured to Tabor to lie down. “Rest now.” At thirty and five, grey had claimed Cyrill’s temples and brows, but his eyes reflected strength. And raw worry.

Though the ceiling tarp dripped and the ground had been muddied from the rains, the tent was spacious, with a small fire pit in the middle of the floor. Crude ropes strung at eye level sagged with the burden of colorful fabrics. A half dozen chests cluttered the corner, apparently moved to make room for the bed that awaited him by the far wall. The air smelled of wet wood and the faded evening's ashes.

“Rest? When Hungerford's men are at Coin Forest?” Tabor protested.

Cyrill gently pushed Tabor, who was taken aback at how quickly his knees buckled. He fell back on the bed with a groan, and Cyrill prodded the wound in Tabor’s chest.

Tabor drew a sharp breath.

“’Tis deep. How would it be to tell your mother you died, as well?”

“But the king . . . ” Tabor paused, as all men did. England's king was but eight years old. He might understand that Tabor’s holdings had been unlawfully seized, but he was off in France and even once he was notified, the child wouldn’t grasp the need to intervene before the knave Hungerfords stripped the castle of its riches. “Regent Bedford must be notified, but he and the king are away at Rouen.” England's war with France plodded on and Bedford was looking out for England’s holdings in Southern France.

“We’ll get word to Gloucester, the Protector. In a few days you can return and we'll rout the vermin.”

“Thanks be my mother is at Fritham,” Tabor said. “But William.” Memories of his brother formed in Tabor’s mind—William’s arrogance, prancing his horse after winning at tournament. The time they scared the Hawkridge girls by bursting pig bladders when they were in the garderobe. He’d spent his youth in William’s shadow, but held no ill feelings, only admiration and deep camaraderie. Fresh grief ripped through him. “Hungerford will pay.”

“But what of the three knights left behind?”

Tabor’s gut wrenched. Secrets spilled under the pressure of torture, even with the most loyal. “The treasury—”

“They won’t find it.” The hesitancy in Cyrill's eyes betrayed his words. He squeezed Tabor's arm in sympathy, bade a hasty goodbye and left.

A woman entered the tent. Etti, his friend, and head of the dancers. Her black hair fell well past her shoulders, brushing his hand. She nudged Tabor onto the bed, forcing him to lie down. “Fie! Tabor, your face.” She shuddered.

Above high cheekbones, her ebony eyes flashed. Lines clustered at the corners of her eyes and mouth, leading Tabor to believe she had lived at least forty summers.

“Thank you for safe harbor. I’m in your debt.”

She laughed. “Ah, now I have a landed noble in my service. Music to my ears.” She produced a small vial, forced his eyes open, and splashed a liquid in them.

It stung. “Agh! What is it?”

“Just eyebright and ground ivy.” Etti was one of the dark skinned souls who came from a place called Little Egypt, a handsome people with a talent for horses, music and healing. She removed the crude bandages on his chest and gasped softly. She sprinkled liquid on linen and dabbed gently at his chest wound. “I’ll be back to stitch this closed.” She poulticed it and handed him a small blue flask. “Here. Swallow this for the pain. And spare me your thoughts on the taste.”

“I need to go.”

“Ha! You’ll stay until you can travel.” From a chest she pulled an armload of crude linen. “With that face no one will know you, but your clothes will draw attention. Here.” She held up a shift of russet cloth and rolled him to his side, helping him change. “There. You’ll be taken for a commoner now, Lord Tabor.” She winked in that playful way her people possessed, and tended the fire.

She’d called him Lord Tabor. Hearing his new title reminded him of his loss, and fresh pain stabbed him, a pain no tincture or bandage could heal. His brother, William, was dead. And Aurora. In the quiet that followed, Tabor thought of her. Like the sensation of inhaling smoke from a torch's fire, a sharp pain burned in his chest, below the gaping wound. He turned his head toward the wall. She had never been his. She’d only played with him, used him to get close to William, heir to the title and lands. Though she sought only station and wealth, his love had been real. He heard a soft moan—his own—and then sleep overwhelmed him.

 

* * *

 

A clicking sound awoke him. The herbs Etti had given him made his mind blur. How long had he been sleeping?

A woman knelt in front of a chest of clothes. No, a child; a girl not yet upon her womanhood. She hummed a hymn, her voice a light velvet, her tone as sure as the monk singers at Winchester. Her arms were thin, her skin lighter than Etti's but still swarthy, like a ripe walnut. She twisted her long black hair into perfect rolls then slipped into a formal headdress, using a polished metal mirror in the chest lid to adjust the veil.

“Ooh,” A tiny voice purred, and pudgy fingers grabbed the edge of the chest. The golden curls of a child's head appeared and a hand reached upward, short fingers grasping for the veil. “Mine. Mine!”

The older girl laughed and handed the child the veil. “Be gentle, Kadriya.” Scooting a bucket to the overhead lines of clothes, the older girl pulled down a smock, slipped into it, covered it with a gown and tied the laces. Standing on the stool gave her enough height for the flowing skirt, though the bodice sagged on her flat chest. Tabor smiled at her slightly believable illusion.

Kadriya squealed and placed the large veil over her head like a blanket.

“Lovely, Lady Kadriya.” The older one straightened her back, lifting her nose toward the tent top. The movement made the lace of her veil dip past her tailbone. Tabor caught a glimpse of her silhouette and her raised eyebrows. Too entertained to interrupt, he remained silent.

She held a rag in her hand and waved it like a fine kerchief. “You fancy my necklace, do you? ’Tis a family heirloom.” Aiyer-loom. Her tongue twisted around the phrase, leading him to believe she may have just learned the words. ’Twas a gift from the king himself.” She turned a few degrees and dusted the air with her rag. With great flourish she offered her hand to the tiny girl. “Come, Duchess. Sit with me in the great hall and we shall have a feast.” She shrank from an imaginary enemy. “Away with you. Such a knave you are, and me a fine lady. Guards, protect us. Take him away.” She turned from her imaginary knave, leaving him in the custody of her equally fanciful guards.

She spun too quickly and the long skirts caught under her foot. Her arms swung in big circles and she tilted out of balance. With a cry she stumbled off the bucket, landing in an inglorious heap on the hay-strewn floor.

 

 

Emerald Silk – Book Two – Kadriya’s bigoted lover and their search for a priceless chalice

Emerald Silk

Copyright 2008, 2014 by Janet Lane

 

Chapter One The Emerald Chalice

 

England’s Applewood Horse Fair, September, 1448

Kadriya paused on the hill above the gentle valley where swarthy-skinned men groomed horses and children squealed with delight in a game of tag. Their bare feet skimmed the earth, their cheeks flushed with the breezy freedom of innocence. Watching them run, Kadriya’s own feet yearned for escape from the tight English shoes and the confining life they represented. Soon she would feel the rich, earthy grass between her toes. She savored the aroma of fried apples and campfires, and the prospect of returning to a life without barriers, under the stars. The thought stirred the Roma side of her heart. It was here she belonged.

She hoped.

Shifting on her horse she spread her arms, palms to the sky, and inhaled the crisp September air. The sun had finally broken through and tall willows wept at the banks of the meandering Parrott River, sprinkling leaves of gold on the surrounding valley floor.

Below, her Spanish-bred stallions nuzzled and nickered in their corral amid scores of other horses offered by competing Somerset breeders. Her patron, Richard, Baron of Tabor, was away fighting in France, and she was handling the sale on her own. She would do Tabor proud and return with a fat purse. Then she would begin her new life.

Maud pulled alongside her, reining her horse to a stop. She filled her saddle, a tall, stout woman with copper hair, ample breasts and a heart just as big. Maud’s gown rode up her thigh, revealing a collection of knives big enough to slay a dragon. Her eyes twinkled with good humor. “You look happy as a fox in a warren.”

“I am.” Kadriya smoothed her skirt, a light yellow wool, and adjusted her own dagger. “Today Teraf announces our intention to break the tile together.” Teraf, handsome, bright, and fiery king of the Roma, was offering her marriage and a home. With him, and with her mother’s people.

Maud’s blue eyes reflected a soft sadness. “Sharai will miss you.”

Sharai. The woman who, as a young child herself, had raised Kadriya after her mother died. “I wish she could be with us.” A fresh ache grew in Kadriya’s chest, as of a delicate web being wrenched from its mooring, forever breaking connections. Sharai was everything to her—mother, sister, friend. The prospect of life without her… Kadriya adjusted her scarf. wishing the airy linen weave of lavender, pink and yellow could shield her from that aspect of her future.

“I can no longer abide the whispers, Maud.” Twenty, unwed, her mixed blood alienating all prospects among the nobility. “I must make my own way. With Teraf.” She would finally be wed. At last she had found her place.

 

 

John Wynter peered through the sunset’s gloom, separating the bushes to keep the heathens in his sight. Their campfire leapt higher, illuminating the frenzied swine as they danced at the river’s edge, oblivious of the mud dripping from their feet. They had left the civilized section of the horse fair, where good Englishmen congregated, and moved to their own camp some hundred yards distant, a camp with several small fires and a community blaze where they all gathered. Two dozen tents, the larger ones flying colors of red and yellow. Gypsy flags. Devil’s music leapt from their strange instruments, and they danced as if plagued with St. Vitus’ disease, the women swaying their hips in an unholy bid for attention from all who watched.

John rolled his cross between his fingers, tracing the dent on the right crossbar, damaged during battle when it saved his life. The smooth surface of the gold reminded him of his faith, of his friendship with and duty to the abbot.

It had been two long, miserable days of riding from the monastery in a torrent of rain that had stopped just today. All because of the Gypsy thief, Teraf. He had stolen a priceless chalice from the abbey, a chalice with a history involving the most prominent bishop in England, a history that would cause his abbot embarrassment and loss of funding if it wasn’t found, and soon.

These foreigners looked to Teraf as their king and he held a court almost as colorful as himself, a swaggering peacock, wild-eyed, hair bound in a yellow scarf and flowing past his shoulders like an ink-stained curse.

Roger, one of the five knights who rode with John to seize the thieves, joined him. “Still no sign of the other one, Erol.”

“The abbot wants both, but by the saints, I’ll not let this one get away. Erol must not be here, and their ceremony is over. The Gypsy king has won his prize hen.” John watched the beautiful Gypsy tart who stood so proudly at Teraf’s side. He had treated her like an ornament all the day, while she eagerly welcomed any shred of attention he gave her.

He could not help but notice her large almond eyes with lively, expressive brows—none of that infernal plucking that the woman at court practiced—none of the outrageous ells of linen that cloaked the noblewomen’s heads and necks like a hornet’s nest. Her hand swept to her breast just then, a woman’s enticement, but the gesture betrayed the hesitance of a girl. Her generous mouth curved with a delightful smile as if to conceal it, but she was a maiden.

She had tied her light scarf high, hugging her forehead and temples like a crown. It flowed down her back, fluttering from her movements, touching her neck, her shoulders. Her steps, sure and effortless, stirred her skirt as it flowed over the matted grasses. In spite of her excessive obeisance to the thief, she seemed to possess her own spirit.

With a toss of her head her exposed hair swung back. Garish hoops of gold hung from her ears and her clothes shifted, shamefully loose at her shoulders.

Never had he seen a more captivating woman.

Leather sandals held her small feet and strapped up her ankles and higher, peeking out when her skirt rolled softly from her movements.

An arrow of lust pierced him. How high, he wondered, did the leather lacings climb?

Cease. He pulled his gaze from her, and chipped a scale of mud off his armor with his thumb. He was here to serve his abbot. She was nothing more than one of them.

Foreigners.

In moments she would learn her peacock was just a pigeon, and a black one, at that.

John turned to Roger. “Are their ponies hobbled?”

“Aye.”

“Good. Now we strike.”

 

 

Teraf offered Kadriya a broad, white-toothed smile. His cream-colored cotehardie hugged his chest, and he moved with unfailing certainty, flamboyant and charming. The fine fabric was mud-stained and smelled deeply of male and horse sweat, though judging by his gaiety, it didn’t matter. Who else would dare to wear such a light hue when riding horses in muddied fields? His raven hair spilled past his shoulders, reminding her of an unbroken stallion, his untamed eyes flashing with challenge and natural charm.

Of all the tribal kings in Marseilles, Teraf was the youngest, just two and twenty. Though impetuous and sharp-tongued, he was respected among the tribe. She admired his intelligence and self-assurance—in spite of his limited command of English, he negotiated fiercely, relentless until he extracted the most coin possible for his tribe’s horses. He accepted her, as if she were a rare jewel, as if she were true-blooded rather than the worrisome, mixed-blood woman she really was.

Teraf nuzzled her. “When I’m through with you, my queen, you’ll spit in the eye of any nobleman you meet.” He hugged her with an enthusiasm that stole air from her chest.

She coughed and pulled away from him. His laughter had grown steadily louder since their announcement, his normally gentle touch now more bold, more controlling. Up to this point her day had been serene, like a pleasant float on the river. Then, after their betrothal announcement, she had been stung by the narrow-eyed assessment from the young tribal women who had vied for and failed to gain Teraf’s attention. Teraf had seemed to change before her eyes and that peaceful river had become a tossing ride on a restless sea, with no sight of land with which to regain her bearings.

But she did not feel unwanted. If anything, he seemed ravenous. Likely the mead was pickling his brain, and come sunrise he would be groaning.

“I’ll purge that dusty English blood from your veins.” He kissed her, his lips not tender, but hard and purposeful. “And fill you with pure Roma fire.” His dark eyes flashed in the large campfire, and he swung her, too forcefully, in a circle. He lost his balance and they fell together in the mud.

It soaked through her tunic to her spine. Kadriya gasped from the shock and pulled away from him. “Let me go, Teraf. You have drunk more than you should.”

“Do not whine, woman.”

A horse whinnied. The musicians stopped. Startled gasps sounded from throughout the camp, and Kadriya scrambled to her feet.

Three mounted knights rushed in on grand destriers. From the riverbank two other knights rushed in, swords drawn, their horses’ hooves plopping through the wet earth then sucking free in the sudden silence.

The tribal dogs sprang from their begging positions near the fire, fangs bared. Many Roma surrounded Teraf, daggers flashing.

The knights urged their mounts forward, one bumping Kadriya.

“Fie! Rein your steed,” she said in reprimand.

The knight rammed her again, spitting on her skirt. His gaze settled on her chest and he reached for her.

She spun away and returned to Teraf’s side. Her mouth went dry. Since childhood she had been accustomed to Lord Tabor’s protection, traveling with knights and escorts. But here, limited by law to carrying only daggers for protection, Teraf and his men were at the mercy of these heavily armed knights.

They loomed over them now, swords drawn. “Stand back,” the older one said.

She turned to Teraf.

The moment grew large, each man frozen, weighing his next move as the dogs rumbled menacing growls.

Dots of sweat glistened on Teraf’s upper lip, betraying his fear and offering no reassurance. He signaled to the dogs. “Ho. Lie down.” He turned to his men. “Do as they say.”

A sixth knight lunged out of the darkness, yanking Teraf’s daggers from his belt. “You’ll come with us, thief.”

Teraf’s stout, muscular build offered no match for the burly, sword-wielding knight. “You make big error,” he said in broken English. “I am Teraf. King.” He gestured to include all the Gypsies. “Pope give papers of protection. Grant free travel. We--.”

“Papers.” The largest knight spat the word like bad meat. “Bring them with you then.” He wore armor but no helm. A gold cross stretched across his wide neck, held by a leather lanyard, its right crossbar bent at an odd angle. His dark blond hair lay flattened against his skull. The stubble of several days’ growth shadowed his face, gaunt with high cheekbones, his blue eyes cold as a fireless night. “I am here on authority of the church,” he said, “and we know who you are. A foreigner. A heathen. A thief.” His hand played over the hilt of his sword, his breath heavy, as if he were struggling to resist the urge to run Teraf in at any moment. “You availed yourself of work and coin at the abbey, and you repaid that kindness by stealing an altar chalice. A special altar chalice. You will bring it to me now.”

Teraf struggled to free himself. “You are fool.” He looked toward Kadriya. “These are all lies,” he swore in Romani. “I have been to no abbey, but here. With my tribe.” His yellow scarf had been loosened in the scuffle, releasing his long hair. It fell, obscuring his eyes so she couldn’t read them for truth.

Kadriya’s heart pounded in her ears. He was looking to her, but the church’s authority was sacrosanct.

“Kadriya?” Teraf stared at her, waiting for—what? Her confirmation that he had been here? But she had just arrived from Coin Forest. She didn’t know, couldn’t bear witness.

But she must respond. He’s your betrothed. He’s too smart, too dedicated to his people, to steal treasures from an abbey. He must be innocent. Teraf needed her to support him. “It’s a mistake. He is no thief,” she said as much for her own reassurance as for the knight’s. Of course he’s not. You would have seen signs of it.

The large knight straightened, looking much like a metal tree, wide and hard, the firelight reflecting on his armored chest. Impossibly, his eyes grew colder. “There is a reliable witness to his crime. An Englishman. A man of God.” He drove the words home, grinding them out. “I am Sir John Wynter, here on orders of Father Robert, Abbot of the Cerne Monastery, to return you forthwith for hanging.”

“No!” Kadriya cried. Hatred burned, hot in the knight’s eyes, scorching her senses. It was frighteningly clear that he had no intention of learning the truth. She sensed then that Teraf must be innocent.

She approached the tall knight and lifted her chin to meet his eyes, slit with disdain. “He has no such chalice. Who is his accuser?”

The knight shifted in his saddle. “So you know a smattering of English, do you, heathen? Well done, but it will not save your thieving man.” He tipped his head in the direction of a small wagon and signaled the other knights. “Tie him up.”

 

 

 

Traitor’s Moon – Book Three –1459-Tainted with a cursed womb, abrasive Nicole is known as the Goddess of Frost. The half-Gypsy Stephen weds her to make amends for leaving her family vulnerable, but can he survive her razor tongue, and when he’s labeled a traitor, will she defy Queen Margaret to save him?  Copyright 2014 by Janet Lane