But sometimes she still did. Like today. Her breasts cradled almost three shillings. Perhaps she could still make it right for him. Eventually.
Mark's head stopped. So did those of the other boys. The crowd began milling in abruptly different patterns. She rose on her toes to see what was happening.
Sick worry instantly twisted her stomach. Mark and his friends had confronted a group of squires. Things were fast getting ugly. The crowd oozed away from the impending brawl, forming a thick circle that quickly blocked her view.
Fear and frustration shot to her head. Hadn't she begged him to stay out of trouble? Weren't those her very last words to him this morning? Now he would get himself beaten or broken, or saints knew what!
She stomped into the crowd and pushed her way through. By the time she popped out from the front row of spectators, the fight was underway.
Clouds of dust rose around the melee of swinging fists and fumbling strangleholds. Mark was big enough to hold his own, but her quick scan saw a red bruise under his eye before a set of knuckles crashed into his jaw.
She looked desperately around the crowd. None of the men seemed inclined to stop it. In fact they were shouting encouragements and laying wagers. The two gangs had become a form of blood sport.
Something amidst the confusion caught her eye and froze her blood. One of the squires, a young man wearing Mortimer's livery, took a bad blow from Mark to his handsome face. He crumbled to the ground and grabbed his nose with a scream of pain. For an instant he lay there in astonishment. Then flaring hatred lit his eyes. As he scrambled to his feet, his hand went to his belt. Suddenly a dagger was slicing through the air.
Everyone saw that the fun had turned deadly. The crowd quieted and the youths stopped. The squire glared at his enemies and jabbed the air to move them away. The street boys edged back, but refused to run.
Mark didn't move at all. She knew why, and groaned that fate could be so cruel as to taunt him with a challenge from one of Mortimer's servants. He stood there arrogantly, daring the squire to try it.
They faced each other in the spreading silence, and it seemed as if invisible ropes wanted to pull them together. She saw—nay, she felt—the exact moment when her brother's death became inevitable. Fury split in her head. Fury at Mark, and at this city, and at this crowd that did not give a damn about any of these boys.
She walked right into the lines of fighters. She strode forward until she stood between Mark and the squire. Ignoring her brother's wrathful order to get out of the way, she shook her finger at the squire's bloody face.
“A fine bit of chivalry you show. You draw a weapon against those who have none? Your strength can not best him, so you reach for the easy advantage. It is clear that you will become the most cowardly of knights. Considering the colors that you wear, I am not surprised.”
The squire's gaze raked her with confusion, but a sneer twisted his face when the assessment was complete. Not a lady, that look said. For all the fine talk, just an impoverished nobody.
“Get out of the way, bitch. And watch your tongue or you will hang from a gibbet at the end of these colors.”
“A big threat from a mere lackey no more than six and ten in years. Your lord will do nothing at your request. He does not even know your name yet.”
“I said move.”
“I will not. We already know that you are a coward. Are you such a great one that you will use that dagger against a woman?”
With exasperated anger he sheathed his weapon, but only to free his hand. He reached for her and shoved.
Another hand appeared out of nowhere. It grasped one of the squire's arms, stopping him abruptly. Long fingers squeezed. The youth's whole body jerked and his grasp fell from her. They squeezed some more and a wince of pain broke the squire's sneer.
It was the mason. He stood there at complete ease, calmly crushing the squire's arm.
“She is right. You are a coward if you will lay hands on a woman,” he said.
“You forget who you deal with,” the squire spit, thrusting the colors of his sleeve under the mason's nose.
“I deal with a boy who does not know when he has lost a fair fight.” A steely glint sparked in the mason's blue eyes. He did not look nearly as kind as he had at her box. “These hands can break stone, boy. Your arm will be an easy thing in comparison. Take your friends and be gone.”
He released his hold. The squire stepped back, red-faced. “My lord will hear of this!”
“Not if you are smart. This city has laws against drawing weapons on its streets. Your lord will not take kindly to you causing trouble within these walls. Now go, or I will tell Mortimer about your behavior myself.”
The squire joined his friends. Donning their arrogance, they swaggered away laughing, as if they had won the day. With their departure, the market flowed again, going about its business.
The mason turned to the motley gang of street toughs.
The command was unmistakable. They began to melt into the crowd.
Mark made to join them. The mason caught him by the scruff of the neck as he walked by. “This belongs to you?” he asked, swinging him around to face Joan.
Mark looked ready to fight again. The mason's tight mouth suggested he almost hoped it happened.
“Aye,” Joan said miserably. She had never seen her brother so angry. He would never forgive her the embarrassment of her interference.
“I thought so. Same hair. Same rash bravery.” He set Mark aside. “You should collect your wares and leave for today. If someone went for a constable, you do not want to be here when he comes.”
“We will go at once. Thank you for your help.”
Mark stood there, brooding and seething. The mason eyed him severely. “Help your sister, boy.”
That did it. Mark's fist flew. The mason merely caught it in his left hand. Joan had never seen a man move so quickly.
Her brother's fury got darker. The mason just held his fist in a firm grasp, gazing back. Her embarrassment grew so intense that she wanted to disappear.
The mason's expression softened a little, as if he comprehended something of the turmoil that rumbled in her brother. “Your sister saved your life. That squire was set to gut you. Now, be a man and get her out of the city.”
The worst of Mark's anger broke, as if he heard some truth in those calm words. He dropped his fist and walked over to her box.
“I am sorry for that. He is very proud, and does not like me playing the mother any more,” Joan said. “Again, I thank you with all my heart.”
She went to join Mark. The mason fell into step with her. “You two are alone?”
“Aye.” Saints, but they were alone. She doubted that any two souls in the world were more alone than Mark and she.
Mark had set the crockery on the ground and turned up the box. A pile of rags waited, but he would not touch them. His pride drew very clear lines about these things. She did not mind. She had taught him herself where the lines should be.
She knelt and began wrapping the crockery so it would not break on the walk home. To her shock the mason dropped to one knee and began to help. There was something disconcerting about his strength next to her. The warmth of his nearness flustered her in a foolish way.
His hands lifted a cup gently and rolled it in an ancient cloth. She almost stopped him. She did not want him to see and touch those pitiful bits of dirty rag. He might recognize them for what they were, the remnants of a life that had been shredded and despoiled. Suddenly, unaccountably, she knew that she would want to die if he pitied her.
“You sold the last statue,” he said while he took a bowl from her hands and carefully packed it in the box.
She nodded while she quickly wrapped the last cup. “I asked for a shilling, as you advised. You were right. He paid it.”
He smiled over at her. She felt herself blushing under his subtle, meandering gaze. She grew more flustered yet. Her hands became clumsy, and the cup rolled out of its rag, down her lap, and onto the ground.
He took the rag and made quick work of the cup. Rising, he offered his hand to help her up.
She looked at that hand, and something sad swelled her heart and burned her throat. It was just a simple gesture, but it had been years since any man had freely given her even this small courtesy.
She accepted and got up quickly. Her palm felt the dry warmth of his, and the calloused skin. He did not dress like a mason, but he owned the firm hands of one. And the broad shoulders. He was not a bulky man, but a tight strength was evident in his tall, lean lines.
Mark lifted the box and they headed across the square. Once again the mason walked beside her.
She did not want him following her. His help touched vulnerable memories that she could not afford to acknowledge. He reminded her of old times when someone always protected her, and no one expected her to be strong, and no man ever dared to leer. He weakened something in her core, and made her wobbly and nostalgic. She could not afford the luxury of his kindness any longer.
“My brother will stay with me. Again I thank you, Master …” She realized that she did not know his name.
“Rhys.”
“I thank you, Master Rhys.”
She said it with a note of farewell, but he did not leave.
“You need not walk with us. We have delayed you too much as it is.”
“I will see you out of the city. Those squires may have decided to regain their pride with an easy revenge.”
Her mind saw again the danger Mark had faced, and Rhys's brave help.
The memory halted abruptly at some details ignored in the fear of the moment.
“That squire acted as if he knew you,” she said.
“I have seen him about Westminster.”
“You live there?”
“I live in London, but my work takes me to the palace most days.”
Her heart began a slow thudding of caution. “You said that you would report him to his lord. Was that an idle threat?”
“I pass Mortimer most days. If I wanted to speak with him, I expect that I could.” He did not say it boastfully. She had asked a question, and he simply answered it.
“You practice your craft for him?” She heard the bitter accusation in her tone. It gave voice to the sudden heat in her head. He had helped her and she should be grateful no matter who he was and whom he served, but terrible emotions much older than this day started churning her heart.
He angled his head to see her face. A bit of that steely glint had returned to his eyes. “Aye.”
“Have you worked on his castles? His fortifications? Do you repair the walls of the keeps that he destroys while he rapes the realm?”
“Rarely. Castle walls do not require tracery and statues.”
“But you serve him nonetheless, as surely as his knights and his archers.”
“I serve the crown.”
“The crown is under his foot.”
“The squire was right, woman. You speak too freely.”
“It is the only benefit of poverty. Freedom to speak since my opinion is meaningless. At least I am not a lackey to a butcher, like that squire.” And you.
He heard the last words even though she did not say them. His face hardened at the insult, but he did not respond to it.
His presence no longer felt comforting and protective. Rather the opposite. If he moved among the court he was dangerous. If he served Mortimer, even as a craftsman, his honor and character could not be trusted.
That saddened her. It had been nice to believe in him for a while. It had been beautiful to think that he was generous.
“Do you live outside the city?” he asked.
“Aye.”
“In Southwark?”
“Aye.” She did not hesitate with the lie. He had asked the kinds of queries she got from men who soon offered a bad bargain. He might be smoother than most, but he was no different. One could know a man by whom he served, and he served the worst. He no doubt expected her to repay him, and not with crockery. He liked her in that way. It was in the warm looks he gave her.
That worried her. She did not want the interest of a man who passed Mortimer every day. She did not want him remembering anything about her, least of all where she could be found.
At the gate she stopped and faced him.
“I thank you,” she said, trying to make it friendly but dismissive.
“Are those the only words that you know? Besides sharp talk that is both dangerous and insulting?”
“What other words do you want?”
“Not the offer of your favors, as you fear. However, since I risked a fight with a dagger, learning your name would be nice.”
“Forgive me. It is just…”
“I know how it is, pretty dove. You are wise to be careful.”
“Joan. My name is Joan.” There was no danger in giving it. There were thousands of Joans in London.
Mark called impatiently from the gate. Rhys backed away and made a vague bow. “Until we meet again, Joan. And try to stay out of street brawls.”
She watched with relief as he strolled back into the city. She also experienced a stab of wistful regret. There had been a few delicious minutes there when he had made her feel like the girl she had once been.
They would never meet again, if she could help it.
CHAPTER 2
RHYS FOLLOWED THE PAGE into Queen Isabella's anteroom. Three days of waiting had finally resulted in the meeting she had demanded.
She sat in a carved chair while one of her ladies dressed her brown hair. Luxury surrounded her: colored Spanish tiles and intricate rugs, Flemish tapestries and jewelled silver cups. She let him stand a long while, until the last strand of gold was woven into her coiled plaits. An inspection of her long face in a mirror, a few adjustments for perfection, and then she finally acknowledged him.
Her lidded gaze showed the confidence of a woman who had played an audacious game and won. Rhys did not dislike the Queen. But for her bad judgment in men, the forced abdication of her husband almost four years ago might have saved the realm as she had promised.
“I am told that you are the mason seeing to my window in the chapel here. I am also told that you supervised part of the new fabric at Windsor last year,” she said. “I have a small manor house that I want to enlarge. Master Stephen suggested you might be right for it.”
“That is generous of Master Stephen.” Oddly so, since Master Stephen, the Queen's principal builder, had a grown son who would also be right for the work.
“Then let us discuss it.” She turned her head. “Mortimer, would you join us?”
A movement in the chamber's darkest corner caught Rhys's attention. A man was reading parchments at a desk there. He rose now and strolled to the Queen's chair.
Rhys's jaw tightened. He did not dislike the Queen, but he hated Roger Mortimer. He hated the man's pomposity and arrogance. He hated his lax mouth and curly dark beard and puffy eyes. He despised the way the man abused whatever power he had. He resented like hell that he had helped raise him up.
Mortimer stood by Isabella's side and placed his hand on her shoulder. She slid her own up and entwined her fingers in his. The gesture symbolized the strength of her affection, which had led her to cling to the power she should have handed over to her son by now. Under this man's influence the Queen had become an extravagant, weak woman.
“This manor house is very small,” Isabella explained. “I am thinking of a new hall, fit for my retinue, and new chambers, too. You will have to go there and see how things are and then consult with me. But I want it made ready so that we can stay there on our way when we visit the Welsh marches.”
The Welsh marches. Mortimer's private realm. He had managed to grab the whole region, and Isabella had elevated him to Earl of March. Rhys had grown up on the Welsh borderland. The only good thing about the current situation was that it kept the man here, and away from those holdings where no one and nothing checked his ruthlessness.
“Where is t
his property?”
“Wessex.”
“Do you know if there is a quarry on the lands, or nearby? If not, the cost will be very high.”
“I can hardly be expected to know of such things as quarries. You will have to determine that. As to the cost, we will discuss that when you return.”
“And if, upon my return, you decide that the cost is too great?”
Mortimer smiled with benign condescension. “You are concerned that this project will not materialize, and that you will invest your time and journey for nought. You will be very well compensated, for any work that you perform for us.”
At that moment Rhys knew for sure that this audience was not really about building.
It was Mortimer who made the overture. He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “You are familiar to me. How do I know you? Ah, I remember now. Aren't you the mason who served as messenger for the Queen's cause? We were told how useful you were. How you also would pick up bits of information while you went about your craft.”
“Very few bits. I am, after all, only a mason.”
“A freemason?”
“Aye. I cut statues and tracery and moldings back then, and still do between building projects.”
“Your guild is a powerful one. One hears rumors about it. It is said that your members know more about what occurs in the realm than our own sheriffs do.”
“We travel for our craft, and we gossip like all travelers. But any pilgrim knows as much as we do. Now, as to this manor house, when do you want me to go and inspect what needs to be done?”
“Well, that depends, doesn't it?” Isabella said.
“Does it, my lady? On what?”
She sighed with exasperation. “Do not be as dense as the stone that you cut. We want to know what is being said, what rumors and stories you hear. There is treason everywhere, and we need to know of it. You are to tell us those bits of information that you pick up as you go about your craft. We want to hear word of any barons' meetings, brought to the city by masons traveling through. If you serve us well, the work on the manor house is yours, and much more.”
So there it was. An outright bribe.
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