She grabbed the anger and threw it at him with reasons she could speak of. “You act like you protected me with this interference, but it is not that, mason, anymore than it was when you took me from the tile yard. Since you have failed, since I will not be your leman, just let me leave.”
“You want to make this base, but you know it is not. If I sought a bedmate I could have taken the coin I gave George and bought whores for years.”
“Then buy them.” She pushed away, hard. He let her loose. Good that he did, for she was ready to pummel him if he held tight. “Buy them, Rhys, because this will never be.”
“It already is. And we both know it.”
“Nay, it is not. Nor will it ever be. Never. Nor will I be in your home much longer. I want to earn coin with my craft, not just mold for my amusement. I will find a place where I can. When I do, I will be gone, and all the pleasure in the world will not stop me.” She strode toward the kitchen, desperate to end this.
“I think that you fear that it will stop you.”
“Stand aside and see if it does.” She snapped the challenge over her shoulder. “You know nothing about me. Who I am and what I fear have nothing to do with you.”
She went to the tavern and the Cathedral the next day, but neither of her potters was waiting for her. Whatever words Rhys had used, they had been effective. Probably his size and strength had spoken eloquently enough.
She tried to ignore the clay he had given her, but it beckoned like a siren. By marketing time she had destroyed the cups made in a rebellious fury the day before, and begun one of the saints that she had already molded in her mind's eye.
Mark accompanied her to the market, none too pleased to do so. Rhys was clever, she had to give him that. He had given Mark an additional chore. He had commanded her brother to carry her market basket so she would be free of the burden. Of course Mark refused to wander the whole city doing such woman's work, visiting shops and visiting craftsmen. By saddling her with her brother, Rhys chained her to the neighborhood market.
They returned with provisions earlier than normal. They entered through the garden portal and brought the food to the kitchen. Mark headed to the hall.
He was going up for the bow. He used it every day while Rhys was gone, and she had ceased arguing about it. He was restless despite his work in the stable and garden. Aiming at the butt for an hour usually pulled him out of his surliness.
She did not hear him on the stairs, however. Instead he returned to the kitchen.
“No fun today,” he muttered. “He came back early. He is up above. I heard him walking about. Best plan on more than bread and cheese for dinner.”
Actually, she had planned on little else. Now she would have to go marketing again. She strode into the hall, intending to say a few pointed words about giving her some warning if he expected to take his midday meal at the house.
She heard the footsteps at once. She froze, and listened intently to their weight. Her nape prickled.
Not Rhys. She knew his steps very well. Too well. When he was here the pulse of her blood matched their rhythm, and when he was absent they echoed in the emptiness.
She slipped back to the kitchen. “It is someone else, I am sure,” she whispered.
Mark's eyes lit with excitement. “I will go see. No point in having us about if he gets robbed while we sit in the garden.”
“You are not going up there unarmed.”
“I've my two arms and fists.”
“I am coming with you.”
He began to object, but she let him know with her eyes not to bother. Gesturing her to stay behind him, he eased through the hall.
The steps above paced to the far end, where the little workroom was.
She tiptoed up the stairs behind Mark.
The intruder must have been occupied in the workroom, because no one was waiting to jump them in the solar. Mark slid over to the chest that held the weapons. He lifted its lid and pulled out the bow and an arrow. While he fitted the shaft to the string, she grabbed the dagger.
Muffled sounds, like a rat rustling through debris, came from the workroom. Mark quietly walked to the threshold of the little room, raised his weapon, and barged in.
“So it is you,” she heard him say.
“Jesus,” a startled voice cried.
“Joan, go raise the cry and get a constable. We've a thief here. No doubt he has already filled his tunic.”
“A thief! I'm no thief. Strip me if you want, I've taken nothing.”
“They can strip you when they hang you.”
“Hang me!”
“Out. And don't try to run. This shaft will find you if my sister's dagger does not.”
Steps moved. “Jesus,” the thief muttered. “Hell.”
A man came into the view. Portly and well dressed with blond hair and beard. The man from the alley.
Mark followed him out, the head of the tense arrow a hand's span from his back.
“Careful with that, boy. Ease it up a bit, will you? One slip and—”
“And you are dead. Don't forget it.”
Joan greeted him with the point of the dagger. “Mark will keep that trained on you while I go and get the constable. If you steal from this house, you have stolen from others.”
“I swear that I am no thief.” The man sank onto a stool, looking panicked. He nervously patted his tunic. “See? Nothing.”
“Then why are you here? What is your interest in this house?”
He looked at her cautiously and a little pleadingly. He nodded toward Mark. “Tell your brother to take his sight off of me, will you?”
She guessed that he wanted more than that. There had been an offer to explain in his eyes. “Mark, take the bow downstairs in case he tries to run. I will hear what this man has to say before we go for help.”
Mark didn't like it, but the idea of thwarting a dramatic escape must have held some appeal. He relaxed the bow and carried it down the steps.
Joan let the intruder see her dagger plainly. “If there is a reason I should not go for the constable, you'd best explain.”
“It is not the constable whom I'd like to avoid. It is your master. I would prefer if he did not know I had been in here.”
“I am sure of that.”
“Nay, it is not what you think. Not theft. My name is John. I am a clerk to Bishop Stratford.”
That stunned her. Stratford was a powerful bishop, equal to any lord. “What interest could a bishop have in Rhys? Is this intrusion Stratford's bidding?”
“Nay. He does not know … I had hoped to find out for certain, before I went to him…. Hell, this is a tangle, and I fear that I will get strangled by the knot.”
“Better to be strangled by a tangle's knot than a thief's noose.”
“Oh, aye, better that.” The reminder helped him decide. “Look you here, woman. What do you think of that man who struts around the royal palaces, and leads the King's mother by the nose? What is your opinion of the Earl of March?”
“Mortimer? I hate him.”
He blinked at the flat, firm way that it came out. His expression lightened. “Well, my bishop hates him, too, as do I. There are some who intend to bring that man down, you see.”
“I am glad to hear it. What does that have to do with this house?”
“I have some concern that your master might interfere with our plans. I was seeking to learn if I am right.”
“A mason cannot interfere with a bishop's plans. I think that you are lying.”
“That is where the tangle comes in. See, I know Rhys. Thinking him sympathetic, I told him things that I should not, over some ale as is the habit with friends. Now I worry that he may have betrayed that confidence. I have reason to think that he has met with Mortimer.”
“He is a builder for the crown. Mortimer would have projects. If they met, it was probably just for that.” She let her tone mock him, but a tiny shiver of worry skimmed through her. Rhys had gotten a summons that day. He most definite
ly had met with Mortimer at least once.
“Aye, it could just be that. But I would like to know, wouldn't I? Because if it was something else, if my misspeaking had been repeated, I'll need to tell the bishop and others, which will sore displease them. On the other hand, if it is just a project of some kind, I need not raise the whole story, need I?”
He smiled at her hopefully. “So, you can see why I would rather no one know I was here, can't you? If I have to start explaining, it will just make the tangle worse.”
“Did you find anything here? Any indication that your confidence was broken?”
“Your brother interrupted me. Maybe I can just…” He turned expectantly toward the workroom door.
“Nay.”
She should hand this man over to the city. She should tell Rhys that John had been here, and what John thought.
But older loyalties and fears surged, smothering any new ones that she might have to the mason who fed her.
Fed her while he bided his time, and tried to lure her into more than she would ever give him. And found ways to keep her from leaving.
Her hesitation gave John new confidence. “I can see how you might find it wrong to let me poke about. But maybe, if you favor the bishop's cause, if you see or hear something, or happen to find something while you do your cleaning and such, just by accident, you might let me know.”
He wanted more than accidents. His eyes said so, despite his words.
“I only ask because so much is at stake. We only want that man brought low, and his crimes undone.”
Aye, crimes. Terrible crimes. She knew how terrible.
“There would be gratitude. Such help would not go unnoticed, or unrewarded,” he ventured. “A few shillings, at least. It would be a shame to have important plans undone merely because I did not know if I could trust an old friend. It would be good to know what Rhys is, and where he stands. You see that, don't you?”
Aye, it would be good to know what he was for sure. Which Rhys was the real one? The good, kind one offering protection, or the lackey who used blue eyes and physical comforts to seduce a woman?
John eased up from the stool. “Best if I leave now. You will call down to your brother, won't you? Tell him to let me pass?”
She did not stop his path to the stairs. And so she made a decision of sorts, or part of one.
“Do not come back here,” she said.
“I will not. But if you should want to speak with me, I can often be found at the first tavern on the Cheap just past the cathedral.”
She doubted that she would ever want to speak with him. He was wrong. Rhys might serve Mortimer as a builder, but not as an informer. Nor did she think it likely that she would even look for what John sought, let alone find it.
She was almost sure of all of those things. Almost.
CHAPTER 10
THE MAN LOITERING inside the chapel yard when Rhys returned to work after dinner in the abbey wore no livery, but he looked familiar. Rhys had seen him around Westminster.
The red-haired page must be ill. “Are you waiting for me?” Rhys asked when the man caught his eye.
“Aye. You are wanted.”
He was not brought to the garden this time. Instead, his escort took him into the palace through a back entry and up a narrow set of stairs. After snaking through several chambers, he found himself between two guards outside the royal apartments. The door opened, and suddenly Rhys was looking right into the face of the King of England.
“Here is the mason,” his escort said.
“You would be Rhys,” Edward said, gesturing him inside. “I have heard of your skill.” He swept an arm around his chamber. “My wife and I desire some changes made, and my mother tells me that you are the best.”
The chamber served as an anteroom to the royal apartments. It had been furnished richly enough, but not as opulently as that of the King's mother. Isabella and Mortimer kept the King's household short of funds.
Edward sat in a cushioned, carved chair that barely fit his unusually tall frame, and gestured for Rhys to sit in another nearby.
Edward looked him over. Rhys did a bit of looking, too. The youth who had been crowned three years ago had grown into a tall and strong eighteen-year-old. Tawny hair hung to his shoulders, and a short pointed beard made him look a few years older. It was said that he had more in common with his grandfather than his father, but the way he accepted the way his mother and her lover usurped his power did not speak well of his character.
“Most of the changes are in the other chambers, not this one. My wife wants our son kept near her, and desires a small part of her bedchamber partitioned for that. The floors as you can see are only plank, and she finds that too poor. She had tiles in her home in Hainault. She would like similar ones here.”
He rose and led Rhys into the royal bedchamber. “There is one other small change I would like.” He pointed to a wall. “I want a door there.”
That wall stood at a right angle to the one which held the main entry in the anteroom. The entry through which he had just come, and outside of which stood guards— guards loyal to the Queen.
Mortimer had said nothing about a new door. Rhys gazed at that wall and knew for certain that he did not want this project.
“You do not need a freemason to do the partition or door. A rough mason is better skilled at such things.”
“I have been assured that you are discreet. I would prefer that the work be done quietly.”
He played dumb, hopefully. “One can not cut away stone blocks quietly.”
“There will be the tile work making noise too, and the new partition, and my mother will assume it is that. She has given her approval for those changes, in the hopes of appeasing my wife. Who is to say what makes which sound?”
Hell. “I am honored that you have seen fit to seek my craft, but perhaps another …”
“I have been told that you are the best that I can find for my purposes. My mother trusts you because you aided her cause, but I know what she does not—that you also aided the men who later tried to curb her power. Aye, Master Rhys, you are the mason for this project.”
Short of saying that he had been recruited against his will to spy for Mortimer, there was no way out of this.
“I will of course do the work. I can begin at once. As to the tiles, does your Queen have a preference for the colors, and do you want me to get them from Spain?”
“She knows exactly what she wants. If you must wait to get them from Spain, then do so, but I prefer to patronize English craftsmen if we can.”
Edward led the way into the adjoining apartment. The brown-haired Philippa sat in her own chamber. Not a great beauty, it was true, but she possessed a sweet expression, especially now as she held their son.
She described the tiles she had known in her father's home. Rhys asked for some parchment and a quill and quickly drew one. They made arrangements for his access to the chambers, and then Rhys took his leave.
He did not return to the abbey yard. He headed home, so there would be no chance of being called by Mortimer this day. He had a good excuse, since a last-minute change in the design for the window's glass required some recalculations regarding the fitting of the stonework.
But he aimed for his workroom for another reason. He also wanted to trace on parchment his accumulated knowledge of the organization of the palace chambers. If memory served him correctly, the wall waiting for a new door separated Edward's chambers from those of the Keeper of the Privy Seal.
He wondered who and what would pass through the new door once it was cut.
Joan made sure that the soup was simmering, and took the evening's bread out of the oven. She left a few pence and a pitcher on the table to remind Mark to go buy the ale when he returned. He was never home during these evening hours. That was when his new friends, the apprentices like David, were finally free and he always went in search of them.
Arming herself with a broom and a rag, she headed upstairs. She aimed for
the little workroom.
In her two weeks here, she had not cleaned in there. Although Rhys had not forbidden it, she sensed that her intrusion would not be welcomed. But she had decided to intrude today, and not just to sweep.
The chamber was quite small. The long table cramping it sat below a window that overlooked the street, and the sounds of the city flowed in.
It was full of parchments. A shelf held rolls of them, along with her little Saint Agnes. More covered the table. They appeared just strewn about, but something in the way they lay suggested that she would disrupt things if she got tidy.
She had no intention of disturbing them—at least, not too much.
It would be good to know what he is. Aye, it would be. She did not like living here not knowing, and John's suspicions had been unsettling her.
One top sheet showed a small church, a stone doorway, some window tracery, and a town gate. The images angled this way and that, as though some idea had come to him and he had simply grabbed the closest parchment and jotted it down. It also showed ciphers and symbols.
Relief bubbled in her. Just drawings for his projects. Not what John suspected, whatever that was.
Still…
She gingerly lifted the corner of one and peeked below. Then another. A pang of guilt stabbed her. Rhys may have interfered with her life and plans, he might speak of protection when he really meant lust, but he had done nothing to hurt her. John was probably just a suspicious fool. She should not let his accusations affect her.
John's words echoed in her head. For a just cause. To bring an evil man down.
Maybe just a few more, near the top, just to be sure …
Steps sounded on the stairs. She knew who it was. Felt it. She looked to the window in panic. There was at least an hour of light left. He should not be back this soon.
She grabbed her broom and began sweeping.
He entered the chamber, darkly handsome in his sleeveless work tunic and leather leggings.
“You are back early today.” She reached the broom into a corner to catch a cobweb. Her heart pounded from the close call.
And from his presence. She always felt a bit on her guard, a tad too aware, when he was in the house. His behavior the other evening at their meal had only made it worse. No matter what they spoke of, another silent dialogue continued between them without stop. An intimate one.
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