Justice of the Root

by Abby Gordon

  “Well put,” Anna murmured. “Anything else?”

  “Um,” Mary took a quick breath and met Rose’s merry silver eyes. “George put her in a room next to the middens.”

  Few people had ever seen Anna Elizabeta de Catalan and Plantagenet of York speechless. She was at that moment. Even fewer had seen what happened next. She roared with laughter so hard she leaned against the wall, hand to her ribs and tears rolling down her cheeks.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Delighted to be of real help to the Root of York, Mary moved quietly down the stone steps and counted off doors on the right. Reaching the fifth one, she stopped.

  “Edmund?” she whispered. “Edmund, are you in there? It’s Mary.”

  The clank of chains accompanied a shadow sitting up on the cot.

  “Mary, what in blazes--?”

  “Sh,” she hissed, quickly unlocking the door and slipping in. “He just went for dinner, so I don’t have long before he comes back.”

  “Unlock me,” he insisted.

  “He didn’t leave that key,” she fretted, fluttering her hands as she had at Jonal Park. “But I was able to smuggle some food for you. And a leather of ale.”

  “Food? Not gruel or something else foul?” he breathed.

  Grinning, she handed him the sack that held a large chunk of bread, a thick slice of cheese, meat and the leather.

  “What are you doing here?” Edmund asked, suddenly suspicious as he paused in opening the bag.

  “Jonal Park is gone,” she whispered hastily. “Richard attacked the queen and took Anna not knowing who she really was.”

  “The fool,” snarled her bastard cousin, pulling out the bread. “Still soft,” he sighed, tearing off a hunk. “And?”

  “For three weeks, they whipped and starved her, then one night, the queen’s Welsh cousins and their company attacked.”

  “Your brothers?” Edmund asked, mouth full of cheese.

  “The younger Welshman killed Henry. Anna killed Richard. Jonal Park was burned to the ground. Then, at court, Thomas lead a company into the queen’s presence.”

  “He did what?” exclaimed Edmund.

  “Sh,” Mary gestured for him to be quiet. “He did. Fifty or more men. A battle right in front of the queen. And that’s when the older Welsh cousin killed Thomas.”

  “And you? How are you alive?” Edmund’s suspicions were deep.

  “I pretended I didn’t know anything, that none of you had told me a thing about your plans,” she whispered, grinning at him. “Although, I knew, of course, how you were here, and Thomas had come here late summer to talk with Northumberland. And to Shrewsbury.” Although she nearly gagged, Mary reached out and covered his hand with hers. “Edmund, we’re all that’s left. Tell me what to do to help you.”

  He frowned and Mary held her breath, hoping he’d believe her, trust her.

  “Could you get a horse?” he asked.

  “Yes, but I told you, he still has the key to the shackles.”

  “That won’t matter,” he shook his head. “Get a horse and ride north. Squire Fortinesque’s manor is fifteen miles from here. Tell him I’m here, along with the Elders. Tell him what happened, as much as you know about the defenses of this place.”

  “I can do that,” she nodded. “Is there a secret word or anything I must say? He might not believe me if I suddenly arrive demanding men.”

  “I don’t have parchment and pen to write a note,” he said sarcastically.

  “I do,” grinned Mary, untying the small pouch at her waist. “I brought it in case you needed it.”

  “We underestimated you,” he said grudgingly, taking the pouch.

  “But now you know,” she smiled.

  The note back in the pouch, along with the leather and the satchel, Mary made a show of checking the corridor before leaving the cell and hurrying out. Around the corner, swords drawn and ready to come at a run if she called out, were George and Eoin.

  “Did he do it?” George asked.

  Mary grinned and gave him the key back. “Squire Fortinesque and a note.”

  “Well done,” he told her as the younger double-rose nodded. “Take her safely to Root Anna, Eoin.”

  Listening to the Roses of York, Phillipe grew increasingly concerned with what would happen to Meggie. None of what they gossiped about was near the truth. Despite what had happened that day, they all believed what Edmund and his men had said two months previous. Finally, he turned to four York Roses and shook his head.

  “You believe this bastard? This traitor? Even though you know how he was towards women since he arrived in York? Even though you know it was not in her nature to act the way the bastard claimed? That it was her sister’s nature to be bold and disobey?”

  “What do you know about any of it?” a man demanded.

  “I know not to believe anything said by a traitor to my country,” Phillipe replied.

  “Yeah, well, it matters not. The Root will leave eventually, and she’ll have to deal with us. Not even her cousin will be able to protect her with any sort of respectability,” a second man declared.

  “What would the people of York do to her?” questioned Phillipe.

  “What any respectable people would do,” retorted a third. “We don’t want our women around one such as her. Nor our children.”

  “But she did nothing,” Phillipe frowned. “She is innocent of what Edmund said.”

  “A proper lady doesn’t even put herself in a situation where her virginity is questioned,” the first man said pompously.

  “Even though her own father and uncle did that to her? Even though her family sold their souls to the devil and gave her to him?” Phillipe was incredulous. “Her sister was the wanton, not Meggie.”

  “You telling us that in France a woman wouldn’t be treated the same way?” the fourth man finally spoke.

  “In France, possibly. But in Bayonne? The Gascon Roses would geld a rapist and protect the woman. We are not such weak men as the Roses of York have become,” he sneered, pushing away from the table. “To believe a traitor and Son of Scion over one of your own. Disgusting.”

  Walking away, he ignored their jeers and joined two Gascons and a Norman near the open main door. Still, he worried over it.

  “Antoine,” he ventured, eyes on his captain. “If a woman is innocent but a traitor slurs her, who would the Gascon Roses believe?”

  The other three glanced at each other then at him. Antoine shook his head. “Phillipe, you know our ways. We get the information of what happened. Very rarely is a traitor believed over any innocent.”

  “So, if a traitor and Son of Scion tried to smear the name of a good woman, inveigling her family to join him, and that woman still stepped forward with the truth of what she knew, would you still greet her as civilly as any other woman without such a taint?”

  “The taint would not be hers,” Stephan stated. “And to come forward with the truth? That is courage.”

  “Aye,” nodded Guillame, the Norman. “To whom do you refer?”

  “Meggie Black,” Phillipe disclosed, knowing they’d heard some of the story.

  “That is a maze of lies spun by the Son of Scion and traitors,” Antoine dismissed.

  “Not according to the York Roses,” muttered Phillipe, giving the four at the table a dark glance. “Once Root Anna leaves, they are planning to shun her. To make her life more miserable than when her father shamed her.”

  “You know more of her truth than we do,” Stephan spoke soberly. “You can proclaim her innocence and we will support you, yet when we leave—”

  “She will be alone,” finished Antoine.

  Guillame studied Phillipe. “There would be only one way to protect her, mon ami. And that might require the approval and assistance of Root Anna and your Heir Armand.”

  “Heir Armand wouldn’t stop it,” Phillipe murmured.

  “No, but he wouldn’t support it either,” Stephan reminded him. “He has little use for marriage.”


  “Considering the bitch he’s married, a man cannot blame him,” Antoine retorted.

  “That is the wife of our Heir,” Phillipe reminded them.

  “She’s still a bitch,” shrugged Antoine.

  “So, it would not matter to you?” Phillipe pressed. “What was said about her here in York?”

  “Talk to the Root and Heir,” Antoine told him. “Talk to her if they approve. But what will you do? Where will you go?”

  “Alicia and I talked at Christmas of our father’s vineyard,” he answered slowly. “Of making the wine the talk of France.”

  “The man has it all planned out,” Stephan clapped his shoulder. “Go. Talk to those you must and bonne chance.”

  The other two murmured ‘good luck’ and, while still amazed at the decision he’d come to, Phillipe made his way to the room where the Roots, Shield and Heirs were meeting. Before sunset, the Earl of Leicester had arrived with two justices. He and the Shield were reviewing what had been learned. George and Eoin were guarding the door.

  “I request a moment with Heir Armand,” Phillipe said quietly.

  Nodding, George knocked, entered, nearly closing the door behind him and reappeared with Armand.

  “Merci, George,” Armand murmured. “Mon ami, is anything wrong?”

  “I need your support on a venture,” Phillipe began. “Two actually.”

  “Mais oui. Que c’est que c’est?”

  “Meggie Black and my father’s vineyard.”

  While Phillipe had often shaken his head at his Heir’s philandering ways, he never ceased to be amazed at the man’s intelligence and instincts. Now, with everything he knew about Phillipe, with the situation about Meggie, the Heir studied him quietly for a few heartbeats and nodded.

  “Bon,” he stated. “Come in and we shall speak with Root Anna. She has been worrying about the Black women.”

  “Not the youngest one, surely?” George blurted out.

  “Non,” chuckled Armand, although Phillipe’s eyes narrowed at the informality. “That one deserved a couple hours in the middens. You and Lady Mary make a most excellent team, George.”

  “Merci, Heir Armand,” the Londoner replied, opening the door.

  Armand, an arm around Phillipe’s shoulders, entered. “Anna, Phillipe has a question for you.”

  As George closed the door, Phillipe saluted the Roots and waited for York to speak.

  “Yes, Phillipe. What can I do to help?”

  “I would like to marry Meggie Black and take her to Bayonne,” Phillipe stated bluntly.

  As with his Heir, Root Anna knew him. Not as well perhaps, but in other ways. Now, she gazed at him, darted a glance at Armand, then lowered her eyes to study the table.

  “Rose?” she murmured, glancing at the woman near the fireplace. “You’ve spent time with her this afternoon.”

  “Would the Gascony Roses treat her the way she fears the York Roses will?” Rose asked him.

  “Non,” Phillipe stated firmly. “I spoke with my captain, Antoine, before requesting Heir Armand’s support. Perhaps it is a sign of how far York has strayed from the Order, Root Anna, but I fear that when you leave York, no matter who you leave in charge, Meggie’s life will become worse than it was when her father first threw her out. No one here will offer her shelter.”

  “Her cousin Celeste and Edward would.”

  “Oui,” he nodded. “But as York Roses told me just moments ago, even they could not protect her everywhere. She would be shunned, even though she is innocent. The men would rather believe a traitor to the English crown and a Son of Scion than an innocent woman.”

  “It is the way of the world,” Shield Owain sighed. “Mayhap one day it will change.”

  “Not likely,” murmured Anna.

  “What would you do with her in Bayonne?” Rose asked next.

  “My father died five years ago. He had a vineyard east of Bayonne. When Root Anna took her place, Alicia and I talked of going there. Creating wines that all of France would want. It’s peaceful there. We would both find calm in the chaos of the world.”

  Rose glanced at Daffyd. “That sounds like an excellent idea.”

  “It does indeed,” he agreed. “We’ll do that with sheep.”

  “I believe sheep smell worse than grapes,” she wrinkled her nose.

  There were chuckles. Smiling, Phillipe kept his gaze on Root Anna. While he didn’t need her permission, nor did Meggie, her approval would clear all obstacles. And, he knew, him requesting her support strengthened her position with the York Roses.

  “Phillipe, mon frere,” she smiled. “I wish you every joy. Speak with Meggie. It will be her decision.” She looked at Rose who was already standing. “Will you take him to her?”

  “Absolutely,” she agreed, going to the door with Daffyd behind her. “Perhaps you can visit Berwyn?” she said as they left. “We might be able to grow grapes on the slopes.”

  Celeste was a block he hadn’t expected. As soon as Rose opened the door and the cousins looked up, Celeste frowned. Meggie, Phillipe was glad to see, smiled as soon as she recognized him. Mary was pouring wine.

  “Rose? Is the Root all right?”

  “The Root is fine,” Rose answered. “In a much better mood actually. Meggie? Phillipe de Gascony wants to speak with you.”

  “Perhaps a turn in the garden?” he suggested. “That seems to bring us good fortune?”

  “It’s freezing outside,” Celeste protested, then frowned. “Why do you want to speak with my cousin?”

  Meggie stood and smiled. “Celly, I’ve been in much colder weather lately with less protection.”

  But the woman’s blue eyes were studying the faces at the door and shook her head. “No,” she stated firmly, holding onto Meggie’s arm. “Absolutely not.”

  “What do you think I’m going to speak of that you would protest so vigorously?” Phillipe murmured.

  “It’s obvious,” Celeste snarled. “My family’s torn apart and you would take Meggie from me as well. Absolutely not. She is staying in York. It is her home and where she belongs.”

  From Meggie’s start of surprise, Phillipe realized that hadn’t occurred to her. At least the idea doesn’t repulse her. Given what she’s been through it would be understandable.

  Unlike her cousin, Meggie had no illusions of what her life would be like in York. She’d been dreading it whenever mention of the Root leaving and going to Wales came into the conversation. She had been trying to gather up the courage, you’d think something like that would be easy compared to everything else, to ask if she could stay with the Root’s party and go with her to Wales. The handsome Gascon Rose offering a different path was something beyond her thoughts. He is handsome, kind and gentle. With me. I’m sure he is a fierce fighter as the Gascon Heir and Roses respect him. Root Anna is fond of him and calls him ‘brother’ because of her Protector.

  Now, despite Celeste’s protests and attempts to restrain her, Meggie knew that whatever the Gascon suggested, she would agree to. Stay in York and be kept in hell no matter what Celeste does to counter what Father and Edmund said? Or go to Gascony with a Rose and start a new life?

  “Yes, Phillipe,” she stated firmly, prying her cousin’s fingers from her arm. “I will speak with you.”

  “Meggie,” gasped Celeste, trying to catch her hand as she walked to where the pegs were. “You can’t.”

  “Celeste, I can speak with whom I please,” Meggie said quietly, taking her cloak. Smiling, she shrugged. “What can York say about me that would be worse than what they already believe?”

  “Meggie, we will tell them the truth,” insisted Celeste.

  “Celly,” Meggie sighed, shaking her head as she put on her cloak. “They don’t want the truth. The truth is uncomfortable and would require them to change. Nothing you say, nothing even the Root says, will do anything.” Smiling at Phillipe, she looked at her cousin. “Besides, if a handsome man came to your door asking to speak with you, you would do the
same.”

  Whirling, she turned to face the door, and, she knew, her future. Smiling, he extended his hand. Silently she put hers along his fingers and let him draw her from the room. Celeste groaned in frustration before Daffyd closed the door.

  Neither spoke as they went down the stairs to the garden door. Phillipe paused, his hand on the latch.

  “Will you be warm enough?”

  Touched by his concern, she lifted her face and met his gaze. “I’ve been warm. I would rather be safe and protected.”

  Understanding, he nodded and pushed the latch. Closing the door behind them, he tucked her hand along his elbow.

  “I can most definitely promise to keep you safe and protect you,” he told her. “I think the warmth between a man and a woman, a true warmth takes some time.”

  “Where would that time be spent?” she wondered.

  He smiled at her. “My father had a vineyard east of Bayonne. I would have us go there and create wines that all of France, all of Europe, would want. We would still be Roses, mais oui, but there, we could both find peace.”

  “Tell me about it,” Meggie urged. “Describe it to me.”

  She didn’t feel the chill wind as they walked along the protected paths. Phillipe painted a picture in her mind with his words of gently sloping hills dappled in sunshine, vineyards and fruit trees. And in the center, halfway up a slope stood a large stone house. Below it in the valley were houses for the workers, size depending on their position.

  He was honest, saying there were fierce winter storms that blew in, and sometimes his father had despaired of drought. But the joy of a good wine, picking the grapes at just the right moment, that had been what his father had lived for. Since his death, Phillipe, and Alicia when in Bayonne, had paid what attention to it they could, but, now at thirty, he wanted something besides fighting in his life.

  Something suddenly occurred to Meggie and she tugged on his sleeve.

  “What faith are you? I could never be Catholic.”

  Smiling at her, he leaned forward and kissed her temple. “Ah, ma petite, most of us were at a point of not caring when Catalan happened. After Tuscany’s destruction, the pope’s involvement again was enough to turn all of us from Rome. Do not fear on that account.”