“I do not accept either the obligations or the rights. I will leave when I choose, without any explanations to you.” They entered the kitchen. “However, I do not expect to do so tonight, so you need not keep watch.”
With his departure, she sank down on the bench against the hearth. She felt as though she had been holding her breath for hours.
She should wake Mark and go. She would be free of Rhys, and the confusion he kept evoking in her.
But how would they live once her coins were gone? She had only two things to sell to ensure their survival. Her craft and herself. She knew not where to find work in the former, and she could not stomach the notion of resorting to the latter.
He knew that. He knew that necessity would keep her here more surely than any indenture. Aye, he was a man, and in this no better or kinder than most.
But they were safe here for a while. She was certain now that Rhys did not know yet. But someday he might. Then what? Keeping silent might cost him dearly, while exposing them would ensure a powerful man's favor. She would not count on any man risking himself for her, even a man who wondered what this might be.
She looked over at Mark. His stomach was truly full for the first time in years. He had not gone looking for trouble in the city tonight. This place would be good for him.
They would stay while she planned what to do next. She would start learning about other tile yards and kilns. Free of George, she could earn coin for her skill now. Maybe in a few weeks… maybe …
CHAPTER 8
JOAN SLOPPED SOME WATER onto the plank flooring and stretched to scrub a corner of the solar floor. She did this every day, even though it hardly needed it. Only Rhys used these upper chambers, and he spent little time in the house. Still, she did it along with other extra chores. She did not want anything unbalanced in this arrangement.
This effort would be especially noticeable today. It had rained, and only now was the afternoon sun emerging. The light breeze blowing in the window carried the mixture of freshness and fetid damp that only a summer storm could cause. The floor would not completely dry before Rhys returned this evening.
A burst of laughter and a scuffling of footsteps rose above the city sounds. A raucous noise of youthful horseplay tumbled into the house from the street and began rolling up the stairs to her. Mark stumbled into the solar, still nudging and jostling another boy by his side.
“This is my sister, Joan,” he said, playfully aiming another elbow. “This is David.”
David looked to be a bit younger than Mark. He was shorter and slighter, and had not yet begun that quick, manly growth that had occurred with Mark in the last year. A beautiful boy, though, with golden brown hair and deep blue eyes.
“He's a mercer's apprentice, and lives a few lanes over,” Mark explained while he and David paced around the chamber, curiously examining its contents.
“Shouldn't you be at your trade, then?” she asked the boy, rising from her knees to greet him.
“My master went to Westminster today, to show some silks to a lady. The older boys went with him, and he closed the shop.” He peered into the bedchamber. “Not much here for a house so big, is there? Always seemed odd, just one man in such a place. It is not so grand as my master's house, but it is overlarge for one person.”
“Well, there's three here now, isn't there. For a while,” Mark said in a superior tone. He had obviously decided that age and strength dictated the pecking order in this new friendship.
David looked out the window. Something caught his attention and a peculiar, almost hard expression veiled his face. For a moment he reminded Joan of the street toughs that Mark had known. It would be just like Mark to find a new friend who had a taste for trouble.
He kept watching—long enough that she got curious. She threw down her rag and went over to him and looked, too. When it was clear that she saw nothing of special interest, he pointed.
“Over there, in the shadow of that narrow alley. There is a man there. I saw him when we came in, and he hasn't moved. You should tell Master Rhys that there may be a thief who is interested in this house.”
She squinted. Slowly a darker form took shape in the dark shadow.
“He may have learned that it is empty most days,” David said. “He may be waiting for it to be empty again.”
A little spike of fear stabbed her stomach. Aye, it might be a thief, or just someone loitering around. Or it might be a man sent to learn about the woman who lived here now.
She knew that made no sense, but she could not control the fear with rational arguments. It had always possessed a life of its own. Worry began tightening inside her against her will.
“See what I found,” Mark announced.
She pivoted to see him standing beside an open chest, beaming with delight. He held a longbow and a quiver of arrows.
“I'd seen the butt in the stable, but thought it belonged to a neighbor. There is a fine dagger in here, too.”
“Are you tired of eating? Do you yearn to sleep in a field? You know that you should not go into his chests. I do not want us thrown out before I have found another place where I can work.”
Mark smirked while he admired the bow. “He is not going to throw you out, and he knows that you will not stay if I can not.”
If his friend heard the insinuation, he did not show it. He joined Mark at the chest, and lifted the dagger. “All citizens own some weapons, to defend the city. These are very fine ones, though.”
Mark headed to the stairs. “I'm going to get the butt. It has been so long, I wonder if I have any eye left. Should be easier to use than the last time. I've grown a lot since then.”
“Nay, you are going to put them back where you found them,” she scolded.
“They will be back before nightfall. If he finds out, just blame me.” With that he disappeared down the stairs, with David and the dagger following.
She knew when she had lost an argument with him. He was showing off for his new friend, and he would never back down now.
She went to the window overlooking the garden. The butt emerged through the portal. Mark set the straw-filled disk atop a bench against the far wall. Pacing down the length of the garden, he took his position, sighted an arrow, and let it fly. A whistle speared the evening's peace.
A pang in her heart matched the thud of the arrow hitting the butt. She knew the sound of longbows too well. It had been years since her ears had rung with their sickening song, however. Hearing it again reminded her that this was not child's play, for all of the boys' laughing and joking.
Both worry and pride filled her heart. Mark had a good eye. Most boys could not handle a longbow until they were fourteen or so, but he had been big for his age, and strong, and their father had put one in his hands the year before they left.
She returned to her scrubbing. Periodically, she rose and peered down at the shadow across the street. The man in the alley did not move.
His relentless presence preyed on her mind.
By the time the floor gleamed dark and wet from end to end, she had worked herself into a state of agitation.
She hated this worry. Hated what it did to her. Well, she had no intention of spending the rest of the day being owned by it. If the danger was real, she would find out.
She carried the bucket down to the garden and poured the water into the garden. “Put the weapons back in the chest now,” she ordered the boys. “Then come back here. I have something for you to do.”
Maybe it was her tone that got their obedience, or perhaps they had tired of their game. A tempest of youthful exuberance swirled into the house and up the stairs, then back down to her.
“The man in the alley across the street will be leaving soon. I want you to follow him and see where he goes.”
David aimed at once for the garden portal. “We'll wait a few houses down and take his trail there. Come on, Mark, I'll show you. We won't lose him. These lanes and alleys are my kingdom.”
She strode through the
house and out the front door. She marched across the lane, right into the shadow and right up to the man.
“They hang thieves in London,” she said, branding her memory with his portly body and blond beard and round face. His garments were simple but well made. He was a successful thief, if he was one at all.
Her abrupt confrontation unsettled him. “Who are you, woman, to dare to accuse me of such a thing? I am no thief.”
“Then why do you lurk here? Hiding like this?”
“I neither lurk nor hide. I needed to piss. There are men who do that openly in the lane's gutter, but I am not one of them.”
“If you piss, the good Lord gave you a bladder as big as a lake, seeing how long I have watched you here.”
The man puffed up with indignation. “Hell of a thing, when a servant goes threatening a peaceable man. And a woman servant at that. Watch how you speak to your betters, or I will have you punished.”
“By whom? This woman answers to no man. Be off with you, or I will fetch my carving knife and take some of the hot air out of you.”
“Hell of a thing,” he muttered. But he angled out of the alley, and headed down the lane.
She waited in the kitchen for Mark to return, the simmering worry making her anxious. Acting boldly did not mean that she truly felt very brave.
The boys were a long time coming. Finally they strolled into the garden, well pleased with their adventure. She met them beside the shrouded saint.
“He went to a tavern and drank some ale by himself,” Mark reported, sinking down on the workbench. “Then he walked west, and headed toward Newgate.”
“Did he leave the city?”
“Nay, he went to another tavern. Only this time he sat with a man. We waited for him to leave for a long time, but finally gave up since dusk is falling.”
“Did the other man wear any livery?”
Mark turned serious. He suddenly understood why she had sent them trailing the man. “Nay, he wore no livery.”
It wasn't much information, but at least their quarry had not gone to Westminster, or met with someone in Mortimer's household.
David had been eyeing the column of canvas propped on the workbench. He lifted its edge and peered at the statue underneath. “The man he met wore no livery,” he echoed, ducking his head for a better view. “But from the cut of his garments and the fashion of his hair, I think that he was French.”
“You cannot know that for certain,” Mark said, a little peeved that his friend had gleaned more than him.
David smiled and shrugged and continued examining the saint. Something in that smile told Joan that he did know that for certain. A mercer's apprentice would have an eye for such things.
“Well, if the other one was French, that is odd,” Mark muttered.
Joan agreed. It was very odd.
Rhys packed his tools and prepared to head home. To Joan. He ruefully acknowledged that he thought of it that way. Carving tracery required great skill but little thought, and so half of his mind could dwell on her while he worked. It was not something that he entirely welcomed.
She was quickly filling his world. The house and the garden. His chambers. She impressed her presence, like so many feminine footprints in wet clay. He returned to his home at sunset every day, amazed anew at how she now marked its spaces.
Having her in the house was a form of torture. An entrancing little dance of silent desire waited for him every evening. Mutual desire, that she refused to acknowledge. He watched her place her feet very carefully, so that she did not sway too near him no matter how he moved.
He waited for the misstep that would send her into his arms.
He slung his sack of tools over his shoulder and followed the other masons out of the abbey work yard. As he neared the portal he saw the red-haired youth, whom Mortimer had been sending too often with impatient summones. The page did not wear livery.
The boy did not even have to speak anymore. Rhys merely fell into step beside him and accepted the escort to the little private garden where Mortimer liked to hold his meetings.
At least no fearful woman sat beside him this time.
“No word, mason?” Mortimer asked peevishly.
“Please remember that I must still earn my bread. I have work that occupies me. And of course I can report no word if no words are being spoken.”
“They are being spoken. What have you learned about Sir Addis?”
“I told you that his wife is lying in from the birth of her child. It is too soon to visit her without raising suspicion. In a few days, perhaps.”
Mortimer bit into a pear. He sucked at the juice noisily while he contemplated the craftsman standing before him. “In a few days, then. As to you earning your bread, I have had a thought about that. A new project. Edward's little queen is dissatisfied with their chambers. She wants a new wall put in, and some other changes. His mother is inclined to permit it, to keep the girl happy.”
Rhys felt as though a rope had just been slipped around his neck, and that Mortimer had begun to haul him toward a chasm.
“Wouldn't the King prefer to choose the builder on his own? That is customary.”
“He is too young to know of such things. One builder is the same to him. It will take some time, I think, to build that wall. A good long time, when you will be in the chambers often, doing your craft.”
Aye, often. Frequently enough to become invisible. Seeing who came and went, and hearing the odd word or two that might reveal much more than intended.
And Mortimer would be waiting for all of it. It would become very hard to put him off with little bits of nothing.
He faced another dance now. He might enjoy the one of desire that filled his nights, but he would hate the one of survival that would mark his days.
The burden of that turned his mood surly as he rode back to the house. He wanted no part of this. He had pulled away from politics and intrigues after the rebellion, but like a fool he had let John and others lure him back to help with the ill-fated revolt against Mortimer two years ago. That disaster had thoroughly resolved his disillusionment. The failure of the barons to support Lancaster and Stratford had proven without a doubt that he could not change much in the world, since the most powerful men shifted their loyalties as it suited their gain.
He did not want to be listening for Stratford, and he sure as hell did not want to do it for Mortimer. He desired only to be left in peace to practice his craft. He wanted to walk the city lanes without looking over his shoulder, and when he reached his home every night he wanted to make love to a pretty tiler with sun-bronzed skin and silken hair and an indomitable spirit.
A spirit that he felt even as he put the horse in the stable and crossed the garden. A spirit that, in his dark mood, struck him as a distracting challenge as he crossed the threshold into the kitchen.
Joan noticed him at once. She was bent over a pot in the hearth and could not see him, but with his footfall she shifted ever so slightly, as if to make room for his presence.
A subtle retreat. The announcement of a boundary. The first step in the dance.
Usually he found her art at the game intriguing.
Tonight it raised the devil in him.
She always knew when he had returned to the house. Even when he came in the front way and she did not hear him, she felt his arrival. This house might be too wide for one person, but as far as she was concerned he filled it very completely.
And so she knew he was at the stable before she heard the sounds there. Sensed him walk toward her through the garden even though she did not turn to look. Felt him at the threshold as surely as if he had touched her shoulder.
It was always thus, and it badly unsettled her, but this evening that presence seemed stronger and less benign than usual.
“Where is Mark?” he asked. “He did not come to care for the horse.”
“I'm sorry, I had forgotten that you took the horse. He met a new friend today. A mercer's apprentice. He is eating supper there.
”
He walked across the kitchen toward the hall. She kept her nose to her stirring and instinctively eased to one side to give him more room to pass.
His steps paused. “Stop doing that. You insult me with it, as if you think if I get within ten paces of you I will pin you against the wall and ravish you.”
“I do not—”
“The hell you don't.” He strode out. She listened to him go up to the solar.
Goodness, but his mood was stormy. She wished she had not relented to Mark's request to eat with his friend.
Rhys came back down, and Joan quickly spooned out the soup and carried the bowls into the hall. He stood there drinking the ale that she set had out to wait for him. He had removed his hide tunic and thrown on a sleeveless cloth one instead.
He watched her every move as she set down the soup and walked back to the kitchen for the bread and cheese.
Aye, she should have never let Mark eat elsewhere. This big house suddenly struck her as far too small. Forcing down a peculiar wariness, she carried in the food and took her place.
He sat at the end of the table as always. She tried to edge away a bit without being obvious. It didn't help much. It was just the two of them, knees almost touching, close together. Much closer it seemed than when Mark joined them.
She kept her eyes on her soup and tried to ignore the sense that she sat beside a rumbling storm cloud.
“I have grown fond of your brother, but I am glad that he eats elsewhere tonight,” he finally said. “You tote him around with you in the evening hours and make sure he is always by your side. It is pleasant to take a meal with you like this, without your human shield between us.”
She had not thought her use of Mark had been as obvious as that.
“The floor upstairs is wet,” he said. “It often is in places, but not like today.”
“It was damp today because of the rain, so it did not dry very fast.”
“You do not have to scrub all of the floors every day. It is excessive.”
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