“Are you and the babe able to travel?”
“It has been almost a month. I am not some delicate court lady, and the babe is content to sleep no matter where he is. Addis has decided it is a good time, before the fall rains come.”
She took a reed from a bucket of water and began weaving it along the top of the basket, finishing its edge. “I will give this to you to bring to Joan. I like her, but she is a complex person. I think that she and I could become good friends, but that I will never really believe that I know her.”
His quick reaction was annoyance at this criticism. He reminded himself that this was Moira, who did not idly pick at other women for fun.
She turned her clear blue eyes on him. A little frown puckered her brow. “Do you know her?”
A day ago he would have sworn that he did, but now he wondered. “Well enough.”
She smiled. “Well enough is sufficient.”
They talked of simple things, of her children and his craft. Sitting with her in the grass soothed him. He had sought her out as a courtesy, but now he took his time. If she was leaving the city they might not speak again for a long while.
She guessed that he had not come just to see her. “Addis is in the solar,” she said when the basket was finished. She handed it to him. “Tell Joan it must dry a few days. And you must try to visit us at Barrowburgh. Bring Joan if you can. I will enjoy her company.” She fixed him with an open, sincere gaze. “You know, I trust, that our home is always open to you and yours.”
He saw more meaning in her eyes than she would ever put into words. The instincts of nature beat in her serf-born blood. She could smell the danger on the breeze, and knew the risks that her husband would be taking soon. She assumed that the man facing her would share those risks.
Maybe he would. He suddenly had nothing to lose again.
He lifted her hand and kissed it. “And my home is always open to you and yours, Moira.”
He found Addis in the solar, packing rolled parchments into a wooden box.
“This departure from London is sudden, Addis. I trust that you are not fleeing for your life.”
“It is time to go, that is all.”
“The Kings plans have been set aside for a time?”
“Mortimer is watching very closely. We will disperse, to make the watching harder. But if you speak with him, tell him that you think that his suspicions are correct. Let him know that Edward grows restless.”
“That will only force his hand.”
“His hand was forced the day Edward came of age. Let him know that time is running out. Let us see just how bold a usurper he is.”
“Are you ready for that?”
Addis did not respond. He would not explain more to a man who had not sworn to the cause. He set the box on the floor, and poured some wine into two goblets. “Sit and drink with me, mason. Speak to me of simple, uncomplicated things.”
Rhys noted the shadows in Addiss eyes. Nay, they were not ready, and this knight knew it. Something was pushing things forward too quickly, either Mortimer's suspicions or the King's impatience. Addis did not exactly flee London for his life, but he took his family away to protect them.
They sat in two chairs near the hearth in the large chamber that held the lord's curtained bed.
“I saw a knight in the city today, Addis. A face I did not know.”
“You know all the faces?”
“Most of them. He was young, and wearing no lord's livery from what I could tell. Wealthy, though. Too well dressed for a young man without a patron. I heard him called Sir Guy.”
The name pulled Addis out of his thoughts. “Describe him.”
“Golden-haired. Middle-sized. Very handsome, almost like a woman. A sword with a yellow stone in its hilt.”
“You describe Guy Leighton. He is Mortimer's man, livery or not. If he has been called to Westminster, it is not good news.”
“How so?”
“He is the kind of man who would kill a King and enjoy doing it.”
That was indeed not good news, and not for the reasons Addis worried. Not only did it speak against Guy's character, but it suggested that Joan might get entangled in something very dangerous.
“How do you know him?”
“My first wife's brother tangled with him years ago, when he was no more than a boy. He was ruthless then, and the years have made it worse. He came to Mortimer's attention during the rebellion. Mortimer gave Guy an army, and sent him out to secure the northern Welsh marches, to take the lands that had belonged to Despenser and Arundal. He did it in the name of the crown, but really in the interests of the House of Mortimer. You have heard of the bloodbath; I do not need to remind you of it. But Leighton may be guilty of more than the usual acts of war. It is said that he even disposed of women and children if they proved inconvenient.”
Rhys went very still. The words penetrated one by one, but halfway through he knew what was coming.
No great champion had pressed Joan against the Cathedral wall, but the man who had misused her.
He realized that he had been expecting this. He had come to Addis to hear it put into words. His pride had blinded him to the truth, but his soul had understood.
“There was an inquiry in one case,” Addis continued. “Nothing could be proven, but a girl and her brother drowned in a river, and Guys hand is seen in it.”
The chamber felt very warm suddenly, and Rhys's body very cool. “An inquiry? That is unusual. In war, people die all the time.”
“Not the children of a baron. Not the son and daughter of a marcher lord.”
His blood began pulsing slowly. “Tell me about it.”
“It happened three years ago. Even if the stories are true, he will not pay until he faces eternal damnation.”
“Tell me anyway. Who was this baron?”
“Marcus de Brecon. His lands lay south of the Despensers'. Much smaller holdings than those, but he was a tenant-in-chief, sworn directly to the last king.”
Rhys knew of Marcus de Brecon. The names of all the marcher lords were familiar to those who had lived in the region.
“De Brecon was an honorable man, and would not betray that oath of fealty during the rebellion. And so, after the abdication, he was vulnerable. Mortimer claimed he had been in league with the Despensers, and sent Guy Leighton to disseise him. There are those on the council who insist it was an independent move, but the documents bore the King's seal—and while everyone suspects that Mortimer uses the seal with impunity, no one can prove it.”
Rhys listened, but another voice silently joined the tale. Joans voice, speaking in the kitchen, His army came, to take by force the estate of a lord who had stayed loyal to the last king. My father owned property in the region, and joined the fight.
“You really mean that no one will risk Mortimer's displeasure by trying to prove it. Marcus died in the battle?”
“He resisted. Leighton offered no terms, he never does.”
He died when the castle fell. So did my betrothed, and almost every man who defended the keep.
“It is said that he was cut down after he had finally surrendered, that all inside the keep were massacred, but again, there is no proof. With the son and daughter dead, there was no one to petition the King or parliament for justice, and no witnesses left whom the courts would find reliable. As I said, there was an inquiry into all of it, including the disappearance of the heir and his sister. Lancaster tried to stir the barons' discontent with the story, but it went nowhere. But many think those drownings too convenient. It removed witnesses, and the boy's challenge to Mortimer's hold on the land.”
The new lord was a vile man, one of Mortimer's favorites. He knew no law but his own will. He took everything belonging to anyone who stood against him, all in the name of the crown. So Mark and I left that place and came here.
Jesus.
A rush of agitation flooded him. He could not sit still,but rose and paced while his mind accommodated this astonishing discover
y.
“Their names. The son and daughter. What were they called?”
“I was not at the council when this was discussed. If their names were ever given to me, I do not remember them.”
Mark and Joan. Their names were Mark and Joan.
He turned his back on Addis, and pretended to admire a tapestry on the wall so the Lord of Barrowburgh would not see what this had done to him.
Conflicting emotions poured through him. Waves of amazement followed waves of anger. She had deceived him, not by lies but through omissions. She had not trusted him enough to confide it all. She had not thought herself safe with him. At the beginning he could understand that, but later …
She was not the daughter of a mere yeoman or gentry knight. She was Joan of Brecon, born of the noblest blood.
I save myself for myself and for duties and plans much older than your knowledge of me. I will not let you interfere with them.
His mind replaced the tapestry's woven images with others. Joan, watching her honorable father cut down. Joan, facing Sir Guy alone in the hell her world had become, realizing that only she stood between her brother and his extinction. Joan, eyes flaring with anger and resolve, clinging to the dream of justice so that her soul would not die.
She had been right. She could not ignore the past. She was not a nameless nobody who could forget forever. She and her brother had run for their lives, but there had always been the danger that the past would follow.
And it had. It had caught up with her today in the marketplace.
“They are vulnerable,” he heard his voice say, while his mind saw Sir Guy hovering over Joan at the Cathedral. Smug and familiar. Predatory, like a hawk that had caught a helpless dove in its talons.
He shook off the image, and turned. Addis watched him curiously.
“They are vulnerable. Mortimer and the Queen. He is careless in his own palace. He watches and sniffs, but he waits for the sight and smell of an army. I walk through Westminster freely, and have been totally alone with him several times. It would be an easy thing for me to—”
“Nay.” It came as an uncompromising command. “When you are taken you will be executed, and Edward will not be able to stop it, no matter how it solves things. Nor should this be the work of an assassin. It must be the King's move, and legitimate, and it must also deal with the Queen, not just her lover.”
“Then let Edward move. Not on a battlefield, but in his own home. You say that he has a handful whom he can trust. Let them go with him to the Queen and Mortimer, and arrest them.”
“Mortimer may be vulnerable to a craftsman, but not to the king he holds down. He is surrounded by guards when he sees Edward.”
“If it is not expected, it can be done. Even at Westminster, but surely at another holding, where the guard will be thinner. How strong is Mortimer's sway over his followers? He buys them with power, and they will desert him when that is gone. The realm grows weary of his excesses, and I can not be the only one who is disgusted that I helped bring this about. A small band, Addis. A quick move. It will be over before he can marshal his support, and even his household guard will hesitate to cut down an anointed king.”
Addis rose and paced. His large body circled the chamber several times while the golden lights in his dark eyes burned deeply.
Rhys watched the inner debate. He hoped that he had swayed Addis. Joan could not afford to wait for the King to gather an army.
“It might work,” Addis said. “Not at Westminster, but at another castle. A small band, as you say. If they can gain access to the Queen's chambers, it can be done.” He folded his arms over his chest. “Aye, it might work. It may have to. If Mortimer has called Guy Leighton to him, it could be that he is considering a quiet move of his own. Such men do not have the scruples about assassination that I do.”
Guy had not come for that. He was not called. He came on his own, to find the son and daughter of Marcus de Brecon. He came to kill the boy he had already promised was dead. And the sister.
“Is the door in the King's anteroom completed?”
“Aye, it has been cut.”
“Good. I think that before I take my family out of London today, I will have some business with the Keeper of the Privy Seal. But if I am going to do it, I must attend to it now.” He grasped Rhys's arm in friendship. “I asked you to speak of uncomplicated things, and you have done so. We barons assume it takes an army to battle for a cause, but your simple plan appeals to me. If you can, speak with Mortimer again. Tell him there is unrest in the city, so he thinks himself unsafe at Westminster. Let him know the King has expressed impatience.”
“Is there anything else you want me to do?”
Addis cocked an eyebrow. “You are with us, then?”
Aye, he was. Not for the realm, and not for high principles. Not for anything lofty or complicated. He was with them because of Joan. If Mortimer fell, then Guy Leighton fell, and she would have her justice. She would be safe. More than that, she might have her life back.
“I am with you, but I pray it will not be like the last time. I do not want to see another bloodbath.”
“Edward has known nothing but strife in his young life. He seeks to heal the realm. There will be no campaign of revenge. Except against Mortimer, of course. The King is very bitter there, and he will treat the usurper as he should.”
“Then I will speak with Mortimer tomorrow, and warn him as you request. And if there is need of me, send word.”
They went down to the courtyard together. Moira stood at the threshold to the hall, and waved her farewell.
Addis smiled ruefully. “She will be relieved that you are committed. She does not trust the fleeting loyalties of highborn people. She says they are like straw, quickly scattered when the wind shifts.”
“You have told her?”
“She already knew. She misses little, watching from the shadows as she does.”
Aye, she missed little. She had seen Joan more clearly in one afternoon than he had after several months.
Do you know her?
“She worries,” Addis said. “For her sake I would like to finish this quickly.”
“Let us truly finish it this time, Addis. Let us complete what we began, and finally be done with it.”
CHAPTER 20
THE HOUSE WAS DARK and silent when Rhys entered the garden. No glow came through the kitchen window to penetrate the gathering twilight.
Joan was gone. He knew that she would be. She could not stay any longer. Not just because of their argument, and the words with which he had parted. She needed to run away again, to hide from the devil.
He stopped between the hawthorn tree and the workbench. He did not want to go inside. She might be gone, but her presence would not be. The ghosts of her scent and laugh waited for him. The garden was not devoid of her either, but it would be worse in the kitchen and the hall. It would be unbearably intense in his chamber and his bed.
Feeling as hollow as the quaking silence that surrounded him, he sat on the workbench. Something fell off the plank with his movement, and he groped on the ground for it. His fingers closed on one of Joan's little tools, a tiny piece of iron that she used to line patterns on her clay. A few other metal pieces still lay where she had left them, here at the spot where she straddled the bench to form her statues. Rhys pictured her, her expression intent and her hands moving, the afternoon sun revealing the shape of her body beneath the thin shift.
She must have left very quickly if she forgot to take the tools. Of course she had. She needed to get away fast if she was going to protect her brother. And maybe she thought that she protected someone else, too. Maybe she wanted to sever her connection with this house immediately in order to shield the man who owned it.
That notion left a bitter taste in his mouth. It was one thing to accept that she did not think that he could protect her. It was much worse to admit that she felt obliged to protect him.
She was probably very frightened. It hurt his heart to think
of how she had forced herself to hide that from him. The whole time that they rode back to this house, all during their dreadful confrontation, she had been holding terror inside her. Worse than that, she had been living anew the old memories of her bargain. He did not doubt that Sir Guy had reopened the healing wounds, and probably intended to inflict new ones.
She should have told him. She should have let him help her. Did she doubt that he would? Did she think that he would run from the danger and leave her on her own? Did she worry that if he knew who she was, and what followed her, he would abandon her to save his own skin?
She should have told him, damn it. If not weeks ago, then today.
The upright plank of the workbench shielded him from the sight of the house. Early this morning he had come out and finished the saint. She waited rigidly now, in all her calm dignity, for him to cart her to the church where she would watch generations pass through its portal.As so often in his life, he soothed his inner turmoil by turning to his craft. He rose and pulled the canvas off the stone. She loomed there, almost life-size, a black column in a darkening world. He ran his fingertips over the eyes that he had smoothed today, checking the surface to be sure it needed no more work.
His hand paused. In his blindness he felt more than he had ever seen. He slid his fingers lower, over nose and cheeks, to lips and jaw. The strokes summoned wrenching memories of touching this face before, many times, in passion and affection. Not hard stone then, but velvet flesh and pulsing life.
Saint Ursula, a virgin martyr. The daughter of a king, and of noble birth. He had carved her in rich, embellished robes as befitted her station, and he had given her the dignity and face of a highborn woman whom he knew intimately.
He left his fingertips on her lips, and they almost seemed real beneath his touch. Do you know her? His heart had known. His soul and his essence had seen all of it. The truth of her birth, and what she had lost, and what she fought to regain. It had guided his chisel without his realizing it. His craft had expressed what his mind did not want to acknowledge. He had not wanted to admit how hopeless his love would be.
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