by Alison Adare
And even if Tom Lynhurst had not had a penny to his name and a sir in front of it, he’d still have been able to do far better than Janet. He was fair as sunlight on a wheat-field, and beautiful as sunlight too, shockingly, blazingly so, looking like an angel who had wandered mistakenly into an army camp the first time Janet had seen him.
No, he was well out of her reach. As her mother took pains to remind her, her own future held at best a craftsman like her father. That was, if one could be found who’d value her ability to sweet-talk suppliers and get payment from customers enough to overlook her other shortcomings.
Janet had put Thomas Lynhurst as firmly out of her mind as she could.
Three years campaigning through the dregs of a losing war had given her plenty of practice at turning away from things better left unthought. The morning she had come trudging back from the pump in the square with a bucket of water in each hand and a light, even voice had asked, “Is this the Cooper house?” she had not immediately realized why her heart began to pound like a kettle drum.
Looking up from the cobbles in front of her, she’d seen first the black fetlocks of an otherwise fine bay horse, and then the long, well-made legs of his rider, and then raised her gaze all the way up to meet familiar brown eyes, warm and steady and lit with flecks of amber, set in a face so gorgeously handsome it didn’t seem quite real.
His perfectly sculpted lips had parted.
“I’m looking for Jack Cooper,” Sir Thomas Lynhurst had said.
Chapter 2
Janet had wanted, more than anything, to run and hide: to not see the puzzlement when Tom realized that Jack Cooper stood before him, with longer hair and wearing a dress, and especially to not see the look on his face in the moment when he finally understood that Jack Cooper did not exist and never had.
But she had not been able to move. And then, after several long seconds of her staring up at Tom and him looking down at her patiently, Janet had realized that the moment was not going to come.
He hadn’t recognized her at all.
Relief had freed her tongue even as her heart had tightened a little. I would know you anywhere, however you were dressed, she’d thought, but what she’d said, in a thin high voice quite unlike the low and husky tones she’d assumed for so long they were second nature now, had been, “I’ll see if he’s in, sir. If you’ll wait.”
“I will, and I thank you.” Tom had smiled. “Tell him Tom’s here, Miss Cooper.” Janet had twitched and nearly tripped over the step into the house at the thought he had recognized her, but Tom added quickly, “I mean no familiarity. You have the look of your brother.”
“So they say,” Janet had squeaked, set the buckets down by the door and made off upstairs as fast as her feet would carry her and her skirts allowed.
As she’d whisked into the room her brothers shared, Janet had sent up a brief prayer of thanks to Saint Sebastian. Her mother had gone to the market, her father and Jim to the workshop. Will had gone … where-ever Will went when he couldn’t stand being inside. The house had been empty.
She’d seized Will’s spare shirt and Jim’s breeches and Sunday hose and then bolted for her own room where she knew she’d left the mending basket. Treading off her shoes, she’d yanked open the laces of her bodice and dragged her dress off, then her shift. The long band of cloth she’d used to bind her breasts flat for all those years had gone into the fire not long after she’d come home, pushed there by her mother’s disapproving hand. Frantically, Janet had seized the scissors from the mending basket, pulled the sheet from her bed and cut into it, then torn it the rest of the way until she had a long strip in one hand and a ruined sheet in the other.
Mother will be furious.
She’d found she didn’t care. She’d wrapped the cloth tightly around her chest, tied and tucked the ends, and then hurriedly dressed in her brothers’ clothes. Her own shoes wouldn’t serve, and her brothers, of course, had been wearing theirs. Janet had prayed Tom wouldn’t notice that Jack’s feet were bare, or at least wouldn’t ask, and then remembered her hair.
Seizing it in handfuls, she’d sliced and hacked it until it was definitely too short for a woman. Mother will be more than furious.
It had made no sense, even to herself. Easier, much easier, to have simply said Oh, no sir, my brothers are all out and watched Tom ride away down the street. Instead, she was storing up a mess of trouble for herself when her mother got back from the market, long hours of mending to repair the sheet, and further months of sighs and clucks from her mother until her hair grew back. And for what? Tom’s here to pass a few moments with a former comrade-in-arms, and then he’ll go.
And all will be the same as before except Mother will be even more disappointed in me.
But she wouldn’t pass up those few moments with him, an unexpected gift falling into her hands when she’d been certain she’d never see him again. She couldn’t, that was all there was to it.
So she’d gone downstairs, dusting the last strands of shorn hair from her shoulders, and to the door.
Tom had swung down from the saddle to check his horse’s hooves, which had given Janet a moment to look at him, at the way the cloth of his coat pulled tight across his shoulders and molded to the muscles of his arms, at the burnished gilt of his hair.
“Tom,” she’d said, in her normal voice, and he’d let down the hoof and turned, smiling. And when he had come inside at her invitation, and accepted a mug of beer, and told her about Brinday Manor, and the Protector, and the Protector’s plan for the unquestionably loyal Sir Thomas Lynhurst to wed the unmarried daughter of the old lord of Brinday and so secure the loyalty of at least one small part of perpetually restive Camray to the Crown, and asked for Jack Cooper’s help …
She hadn’t been able to say no. Not to the chance of getting out of her parents’ house and out of skirts, not to the chance of getting away from the bustle and the clamor of the city which had been, but was no longer, her home.
And not, ever, to Tom.
Which was why she was currently counting the blisters on her backside and the drips creeping under the neck of her cloak, and telling herself for the fifteenth time that hour, this is absolutely the worst idea ever.
“How much further?” she asked.
“We’ll be in the Marches tomorrow,” Tom said. “And then three or four days to Brinday.”
Janet groaned.
Tom glanced sideways at her. “Thank you, Sir Thomas,” he said, “for your generous offer of employment, room and board included, as the steward of Brinday. Thank you as well for seeing me properly equipped and mounted, at your own expense.”
Janet eyed him. “Thank you,” she said grudgingly.
“And thank you, Sir Thomas, for putting up with my exceedingly foul mood —”
“Don’t push your luck,” Janet said, and he chuckled softly.
She had to admit that Tom was right. Apart from the damp, which seemed to grow more persistent the further west they rode, and the fact that the first day’s travel had included more riding than Janet had done in her entire life up until then and been followed by eight more, Janet had very little to complain about. Her brigandine was new, her arming doublet fit without chafing, her new boots didn’t pinch. Her mount Masie was, if not the quality of Tom’s own Nightfoot, sturdy and even-tempered. Even the cloak which was doing so little to keep her dry was good wool and well lined, and the packhorse ambling along behind them carried a second set of clothes nearly as good as the first, as well as those of their supplies not carried by the riders, and Tom’s field armor.
In fact, I’d probably be carrying my whole first year’s pay around on my back if Tom hadn’t declared it was his responsibility to see me set.
Burdened as the horses were, they’d traveled slowly. They’d stayed at inns where they could, camped where none was available. Tom had revealed a hitherto-unsuspected talent for setting snares and tickling fish — grew up in the country, Jack, he’d said with a hint of smugness — a
nd Janet had eaten better than she ever had in her life.
And she was on her way to a job which would pay more than any she could have hoped to get otherwise, even if she had been Jack instead of Janet Cooper. Of course, the likelihood of receiving that pay depends on what Tom can squeeze from his tenants — or I suppose, what I can squeeze on his behalf.
After the past few years soldiering, though, she was used to not being paid.
Still …
She nudged her horse closer to Tom’s. “How well off is this Brinday Manor, anyway?”
He turned in the saddle again, and yes, that’s definitely close to a smile.“Finally getting down to essentials? I expected that question days ago.”
“I was being polite,” Janet said, although the truth was she’d been too preoccupied with the anxiety that her disguise wouldn’t pass muster in close company with no distractions to think much about the future. In the end, it had been easier than she’d expected. Tom had accepted without question her explanation that her sister Janet was too shy to come back downstairs while a strange man was in the house. He was naturally modest, and had always taken care of his appearance, so he’d seen nothing unusual in Janet going out of sight rather than squatting in a ditch by the road, or in her making a great show of shaving each morning. The rain made it impossible for her to fake a stubble, but Tom didn’t seem to find that suspicious, and so far, that was the biggest difficulty she’d faced.
“Wonders and miracles,” Tom said. “Well, the truth is, it’s as well off as anywhere west of here, which is, not particularly. The whole region was devastated when the last revolt was put down, and then the plague followed after. And the last winter was a hard one, and the weather poor. Seed rotting in the ground, corn rotting in the ear.”
That was bad news. If the harvest failed in one region, grain could always be bought from another, or from another country if necessary, but rarely at favorable prices. “Looking to our stores would seem to be my first task, then. Do you know what the land’s like? How much under plow?”
“Little, I’m told. Some oats and rye. Wool is most of Brinday’s income, and so when trade is poor …”
“Wonderful,” Janet said sourly. “So we’re poor.”
“The whole west is poor,” Tom said, “since the King’s father, rest his soul, put down their rebellion. They say grass grows in the market squares still.”
“Was Brinday part of it? The rebellion?”
Tom nodded. “Not foremost, but well up in the crowd. It’s why the Protector is so keen to see it in loyal hands, now the chance presents itself.”
“So we’re poor, probably starving, and surrounded by people who want to kill us.”
“Pretty much,” Tom agreed.
“I hope she’s pretty.”
“Who?” Tom said, but he blushed crimson.
“Oh, she is pretty,” Janet said, eying him, ignoring the pang it caused her. “This Lady Modron, the old lord’s only child.”
“I don’t know,” Tom said with great dignity, still scarlet. “I’ve seen a picture, but the painter was no doubt paid to make it as flattering as possible. And I said yes because it’s in the interests of the Crown, not because of how she looks.”
“I’m sure,” Janet said dryly. “And is she old enough to bed? Or will you have to wait to get yourself an heir?”
“I’m told she’s of age. A widow, for a few years now.” He shrugged slightly. “The match her father sought for her was … disadvantageous to the Crown, and not pursued after the old lord’s death. But the King had little stomach for forcing her against her inclination.”
“Lucky for you, the Protector has no such qualms,” Janet said. Indeed, if the stories told of him are true, that’s a man with no qualms at all. “So, is it true, the King’s mad?”
“I didn’t meet him to know.”
“What did they say at court?”
Tom’s mouth thinned. “I don’t listen to gossip.”
“Oh, god’s blood, Tom!” Janet’s horse snorted in protest as her hands tightened on the reins. “You’re too good to live. Quite possibly literally. The Protector’s given you this manor. He means to secure you to him as much as to secure Brinday to the Crown. What will happen if the Protector falls?”
“If I’m loyal and true, nothing,” Tom said.
“Were you in the same army as I was?” Janet asked. “Politics has no regard for how nice you are.”
He was silent for a little while. There was no sound but the thud of their horses’ hooves in the mud of the road and the incessant dripping of the rain. “They say the King neither speaks nor eats,” he said at last. “He doesn’t know the Queen, or his oldest friends. Even when his son was born, and shown to him, he said nothing.”
Janet had her own thoughts about that son, born after nearly ten years of marriage, but it would be treason to speak them aloud. “And the Protector?”
Thomas smiled. “He speaks and eats, I can attest to that.”
“And you’re certain of his favor?”
He laughed, a mere puff of air. “The Protector’s favor follows success.”
“Well then,” Janet said. “We’d better make sure you’re successful, then.”
He gave her a sidelong glance. “Why do you think I asked you to come with me?”
~o~
Janet crawls out from under what had been a man she knew — although there’s no way now to tell which one — and, stupidly, tries to tug her pike free as well. Her grip slips on it and she goes over backwards, lands in a puddle of mud and blood with her hand in something warm and yielding, writhing around her wrist like a basin of eels —
“Jack, wake up!”
And she was in her bedroll, Tom bending over her, his hands firm on her shoulders, face intent and frowning in the dim glow from the embers of their campfire.
“Wake up, come on now, wake up,” he said again.
“I’m —” Before she could get out the word awake, her mouth filled with sour saliva and cold sweat prickled on her face.
Tom seized her by the arm and hauled her up to lean clear of her bedding. Janet retched uncontrollably, even after the remnants of her dinner had spattered onto the grass and there was nothing to bring up but sour bile.
“You’re all right,” Tom said, his hand on her back. “It’s over. It’s past. You’re all right. You’re safe.”
Janet managed to catch her breath enough to speak. “Christ, I’m sorry —”
“It’s all right.” His voice, like his hand, was steady and warm. “It’s all right. You’re all right. It’s over, now.”
“I —” Shameful, humiliating tears.
“I know. I know, Jack. I know.”
The spasms left her, finally, and Thomas let her roll back onto her bedroll. “Sorry.”
“You’ve woken me, often enough,” he said lightly. It was true, although Janet knew that the nightmares that had made him twitch and whimper in on his cot in the army camp were not of the blood and fire of the battlefield. He’s slept soundly enough these past days, though. Unlike her. “What was it?”
“Castyon.” She’d never spoken of it, even to him, but in the small circle of light shed by the dying fire surrounded by the great dark circle of the sleeping countryside, the words came. “Peter — remember Peter Stintson? — a cannonball took him in the belly. I — put my hand in him, trying to get up.” She had to swallow hard as her gorge threatened to rise again. “He was still alive then, I think.”
“He’s at rest now.” Tom tossed more wood onto the embers of the fire, and then offered her his canteen. “Drink?”
“Thanks.” Janet took it, took a long draught and then spat it into the fire. “Christ’s cod, Tom, that’s water! Why bring me all this way just to kill me?”
He winced at her profanity. “I grew up drinking water,” he said. “There’s no harm to it, whatever people say. And you’ll have to get used to it — I doubt Brinday’s funds will run to keeping you in ale and wine year-round.�
��
Janet snorted. “Mark Findley used to say there was no harm in it too, and died with black bile running from both ends of him.” She dropped back to her bedroll and thumped her head gently on the ground. “Some sheep-ridden swamp populated by people who want to kill us both, and guaranteed bloody flux of the bowels to cap it off. Tom, this is a terrible idea.”
“Perhaps,” he said. “But you know it’s my chance, Jack, and not one likely to come again. I’m a younger son, the youngest of many. I’ll have nothing but by marriage or the Crown’s gift.”
“And in this case you’ll have marriage by the Crown’s gift, too.” Janet rolled onto her side and watched Tom staring into the flames. “She’ll probably want to kill you, too, you know.”
His gaze flicked to her. “That’s why you’ll be tasting my food.”
“That was not in the —” She stopped. His mouth was still and straight but there was a crinkle of humor at the corners of his eyes. “Well played. Although, you know, I’m not likely to be much use to you, otherwise.”
He fed another branch to the fire. “I disagree.”
“I’m about as far from a steward of anything as I am from the Queen.”
“You write a fair hand, figure well and fast, you know how to get the best from a man or a horse — and more importantly, a merchant. You spent enough time listening to the army engineers to know how and why a fortification might fall to attack and how to prevent it. And you’ll be the one sword in Brinday I know I won’t find buried in my back.”
“Surely you have a brother or a cousin — someone born to rank.”
“Oh, I have a cousin who can’t count past twelve without taking off his shoes and an unoccupied brother who’ll pay the first asking price for anything he buys. Do you want to go home, then?”
“The first asking price?” Janet said, horrified.
“Gog’s truth.”
“Then I can’t go home, can I?” she said. “Apart from the fact that you clearly need someone who can swear at the tenants without sounding like a nun who’s dropped her prayerbook — what if such idiocy runs in the family?”