She should have told him. Except that she had. She had never really hidden her nobility from him. The first time that he saw her in the marketplace, it had garbed her more surely than her tattered grey gown.
A vague sound penetrated his absorption. He glanced over his shoulder, then turned. Another dark column stood in the thickening shadows near the house. Another draped female form, unmoving and rigid, faced him. Not made of stone, though. Fear and worry and relief did not pour out of stone.
Joan was not gone. She had not left yet.
He did not know what to say to her. She did not trust him, and he could not help her unless she did. Even then, his interference might cause more trouble than aid. She might indeed be safer if she and Mark just disappeared again.
He realized that he did not have to say anything, because it would not matter. She had already chosen her course. She ran from the past toward her future, and neither included him.
She had not left yet. But she would be gone forever very soon.
He knew.
It was in his stance and his silence and in the way he looked at her. Joan could not see his face in the darkness, but she did not doubt that those intense blue eyes glinted with his new knowledge of how she had deceived him.
She would have given anything for Rhys to have never known. Already it changed things. He faced her differently. Not with sudden deference or restraint. Nay, Rhys did not think of nobles as his betters. It was not shock or dismay that stretched from him to her across the garden yard. She felt something much sadder coming to her. Something poignant. Acceptance and regret. Resignation, and maybe some anger.
He stood there like a man who calmly realized that he had been wasting his time.
“You are not gone.”
She grimaced. He had delayed all day in returning so that he would not find her here. “I thought to be, but I could not find Mark. He should return soon, and we will leave at once—”
“I am glad that you are not gone.”
He meant it. Her heart stretched. She was glad that she was not gone yet, too, even though it would be much harder now. Terribly hard.
“Come and sit with me while we wait for your brother, Joan.”
She walked over and they settled on the bench side by side. She basked in the final security of feeling his warmth and strength. She was glad that their last few moments would be here in the garden, on this bench, at the spot where they had shared their deepest moments and known the soul together.
“How long do you have before he starts looking again?”
Aye, he knew. He had guessed it all. “One day. We can be out of the city by then, and well on our way.”
“Where will you go?”
“North.”
“Let me take you to Edward. Instead of running again, go to the King and get the justice that you want.”
“I can not risk that. If I enter Westminster, I will never see the King. Nor can he do much for me. He is only a pawn. Another holds the power.”
“It will not always be so, I promise you.”
“Perhaps not, but it is so now. If Edward ever claims his place, I will be the first in line to petition him.”
“I think that he will very soon.”
“Not soon enough.”
He sighed deeply. Sadly. Her own heart responded in kind. The whole garden seemed drenched in melancholy, as though the plants and trees awaited the death of something beautiful.
“I will go with you. I will take you and your brother out of the city, and bring you to Sir Addis. He knows of your story, and he will give you sanctuary.”
“We can not even prove who we are. The world thinks us dead. We will bring Sir Addis and Moira nothing but trouble, and the enmity of the Queen and Mortimer.”
“Then we will flee north as you planned.”
“I do not want you coming with us, Rhys. Today Guy saw me as a long-lost love, but very soon he will see me only as the woman who betrayed him. In either view, he will retaliate against you if he learns of the time I spent here.”
Rhys took her hand, and stretched his fingers between hers in a firm grasp. “I do not care about that. He frightens you, but he does not frighten me. We will go together.”
“Nay.” She squeezed his hand to emphasize her resolve. “Nay.”
Silence surrounded them, but unspoken words filled it. Accusations of deception, but also promises. She wished that the latter ones could be said. Her throat tightened and her heart burned from the effort to keep strong.
She longed to embrace him and say that one day she would be safe and she would return, and they would start over, and finally discover just what this might be. Only it would not happen that way, and Rhys knew it. She wished that it could, though. She wished that she owed nothing to the past and future. She ached with the imminent loss of what they had shared. She prayed that he understood how happy Joan the tiler had been with Rhys Mason.
He pulled her into his arms. His strong embrace defeated her. She sank against him and inhaled all that he was, and tears brimmed in her eyes.
“You might have told me,” he said. “You might have trusted me.”
“I could not, at first. And then … I knew that I would only have you for a short time, Rhys. If you knew who I was …”
“If I knew who you were, I would also have known that we would have each other only for a short time. You had always warned about that, but I had hoped for more.”
“And I let you, and lied to myself that maybe it could be more, too. A year at least. Maybe I wanted us to believe it while we could, so this day would not shadow our time together. It was selfish and heartless of me.”
“Nay, not selfish. Maybe I am glad that you did not tell me.” He caressed her face, and turned it up to him. “And I am glad that you were not gone tonight, so that we can part with a kiss, and not the harsh words we spoke this morning.”
The touch of his lips seared her whole being with warmth. He tasted of goodness and fairness and all that she had lost years ago. He kissed her beautifully, for the last time, lingering in a way that stirred her soul and her womanhood.
A noise penetrated their sad bliss. Footsteps padded through the garden. She clung desperately, blocking out the intrusion, not wanting to hear the sounds that signaled the end.
He broke the kiss, but held her tightly. A figure walked past them, and stopped near the statue.
Joan reluctantly turned her head. Mark gazed not at their embrace, but at the propped stone saint. He stood like a soldier, legs parted and braced, back and shoulders squared, his hands clasped behind him.
“I looked at it this morning,” he said, nodding to the statue. “You completed the face.”
“Aye.”
“She is very beautiful, and you handled her with great skill and affection. But it is over and done now, isn't it. It is time for her to leave this garden. You are finished with her.”
Rhys brushed Joan's hair with his lips, and loosened his embrace. “Take the horse,” he whispered. “Take whatever you need.”
Her heart screamed a protest as he rose, separating from her.
He walked away, heading to the house, taking parts of her with him, making tears that would never heal.
Aye, it was over and done now. He was finished with her.
She tried to calm her emotions, and see past the pain. Mark waited, giving her a little time.
She had to collect herself. She had to explain to her brother just how over and done it was. They needed to be off, and find some way to get through the city gate tonight.
He shifted slightly. His right hand emerged from behind his back. A long, dark line appeared by his side.
He held his sword.
Her heart stopped, then began again with a rapid, desperate rhythm.
“He is here. In the city,” he said, flatly.
No wonder he had spoken with such finality to Rhys. “I know. How did you find out?”
“The man whom I pay to train me is the father of on
e of Mortimer's household guards. He gossips when he is in his cups. I make sure that happens often.”
“What else did he tell you?”
“That Guy's arrival was unexpected. He was not called. I think that he came looking for us.”
“Perhaps not, but we can not risk it. I also learned he was here. I have been waiting for you, so that we can leave tonight.”
“Nay.” The word came out too calmly.
She realized what he was thinking. What he planned to do. She shot to her feet. “You can not. It will be just what he wants.”
“We do not run like criminals anymore. I do not.”
“You are a boy.”
“Man enough to know I have only one choice in this.”
She grabbed his arm. “He knows we are here. He saw me. Do you understand how dangerous this is? He will be looking, and waiting. You will not be able to take him by surprise.”
“I never intended to. I am not some coward who cuts a man down from behind.”
Saints. “It will be like Piers. Do you forget so easily? Is your pride making you blind? You are no match for him. He will kill you.”
“Then I will die with honor, where the whole world sees, and before I do I will let everyone know what he is, and what he did. And you will survive and tell the rest.” He reached out and smoothed his hand over her hair. “All of the rest. What happened to Father and the others might be excused by war, but not what happened to you.”
Dear God, he knew. He had always known. And now he would go to his death rather than live with it unavenged.
“Do not do this for me. I am alive, at least, and so are you. I do not want your rash bravery on my behalf.”
“Women never do. That is why men do not ask their permission, and I do not ask yours now. I only tell you because I promised to.”
“You will die. Are you still so callow a youth that you do not comprehend that? And public challenge or not, it will change nothing. Nothing.”
“It will change everything. Despite my youth, he will not be able to resist meeting me, and all who see him do so will know him for the murderer he is.”
“At best you will wound his honor. Do you think a man like that cares about such things?”
“What matters is that I care about such things.”
He was not listening. His pride had made him deaf. She gripped his arm tighter, until her fingers clawed. “I beg you, brother, do not do this. Do not leave me alone.”
“You will not be alone. When it has all come out, the King's council will see to your safety. They will find you a strong husband, who will protect you and our lands until you have a son.”
Mark did not understand. Full of youth's rash heroism, he did not realize it would not be that way at all. He had been only a boy when it happened, and he had not perceived how every move Guy had made had been directed by another man. A man who would gladly bury her brother and her and blithely ignore the questions Mark's bold act raised.
It was her fault. She had kept his pride alive, breathing on its embers whenever poverty threatened to extinguish it. She had fed his anger with tales of Guy's atrocities. She had never led him beyond that, to take into account the distant hand that had guided the whole thing.
And now it was too late. He had worked himself up all day, and made his hard decision. The path of valor shone in front of him, and he would not listen to words that insisted it would all be futile.
She could understand that. For three years she had not seen it, either. In her hatred for Guy, she had ignored the totality of it. She had dreamt of destroying the smaller evil, when a bigger one was the source of its power.
“Wait one day. Give me one day, I beg you. I will make this right.”
“You can not accomplish in one day what three years could not make happen.”
“I can. I know how.”
“If you think to buy a champion, put the idea out of your head. You do not have the coin, and I will not permit the alternative.”
“Rhys has the coin.”
“He does not. He used it to purchase the tile yard. So his pretty leman could practice her craft, and be bound to him in a partnership. Twenty pounds it cost him, I heard. I doubt your mason had much more than that hidden under the floorboards.”
The news stunned her. She had not thought about the cost of the yard, and the potential loss of the investment when she left. It became one more misery to add to her distress.
“I still ask for one day. I know another way to settle this. If I am wrong, if I fail, one day can not matter. In fact, it will make it easier. You will not have to go searching for Guy, because he will be waiting for you. Tomorrow next, at the Temple. He thinks that we will come at tierce.”
Mark's head snapped around in shock. “You spoke with him?”
“Aye.”
“You promised this to him?”
“To buy some time, so we could leave.”
“What other promises did you make?” He sounded furious.
“What he wanted to hear. What he needed to believe, so he would not look for you at once.”
He calmed a little, and considered the options. “The Temple at tierce. It is busy there at that time. If we meet thus, many will see it.” His boyish pride liked that, as if it would make a difference.
“If I fail and you meet him, I will make sure that the whole city of London sees it.”
He wavered. “It would be better than going to him at the palace, I suppose.”
“Much better.”
He toed at the tip of his sword. It was a childish gesture, revealing the boy who still lived inside the man. Joan wanted to gather that child in her arms, and scold him and protect him and forbid this dangerous game.
“One day only?”
“One day. I will know by tomorrow evening if I have been successful.”
He shrugged. “I suppose that after three years, it can wait one day.”
Relief oozed through her. Relief and numbing dread. She had made a promise, and now could avert his death only by finding a solution very quickly.
There was only one that would work.
No champion. No coin. No time. That left only her, on her own. In coming to look for them, Guy had forced her hand in ways she had never anticipated.
No more running. No more dreaming. The past pressed along her back, and her brother's sword blocked the future. In the next day it would all be over. Truly finished and done with.
She released her hold on Mark's arm, and smoothed her palm up to his shoulder. “I want you to go to David's house tonight. I want you to wait there until I come and get you tomorrow.”
“Why? Does Guy know where you live? Do you worry that he will come to this house? If so, I will not leave you to face him alone.”
“He does not know. But I will sleep better if you are safe and hidden, just in case. It is foolish of me, but we women are like that.”
“Oh, aye, if you are going to worry all night, I will go.”
“You should probably leave the sword here.”
“I suppose that I should.” He paced down the garden. He slipped the weapon behind the plants along the wall, then aimed for the portal.
She ran and stopped him. She gazed at him in the darkness, and wished that she could see his face clearly. She ran a caress over his strong shoulders and down his arms, and her memory felt the frame of a boy and a youth even though her hands traveled along the body of a man.
A surge of nostalgia washed her, and a new expectation of loss pierced her heart. She took his hands in hers, and lifted them to her face. He shifted, uncomfortable with the intimacy in the way of boys his age.
She stretched toward him, and kissed his cheek. “You have been my world, Mark, and my life, for three years. One day more, and I will finally make it right. You will have it all back.”
He stilled suddenly. “As will you. We will reclaim our home as we left it, hand in hand.”
She was grateful that he could not see her face, and the tears
brimming in her eyes. “Aye, hand in hand. Go to David now.”
He hesitated, as if he sensed her hidden sorrow. As if he knew. He reached for her impulsively, and clutched her in an awkward embrace against his chest.
He released her, and stepped to the portal. “I will wait for you. Only until vespers, though. I will return here then if you have not come or sent me word.”
He meant that he would return for the sword. His heart suspected that he would not find her here if he had to wait that long.
She stepped into the alley, and watched as he was swallowed by the night. She waited long after he had turned off the path, imagining that she could still see him. Then she closed the portal, and went to sit among the flowers and face the only choice left.
We will reclaim our home as we left it, hand in hand.
That was how it was supposed to be. That was the dream, and the plan.
But it would not happen that way now. If she did what she had to do, she would not live to see that day.
CHAPTER 21
JOAN SAT AMIDST the flowers, unnaturally alert to their scents. She drifted her hands through them, reveling in the textures of their fibrous stalks and soft petals. The white ones shone like tiny ghosts in the night, reflecting the vague light cast by the moon.
Her senses absorbed it all, moment by moment. Reality existed in a new way. Sharper. Immediate. It was as if God had slowed time for her tonight, and heightened her awareness, so that she might live as thoroughly as possible.
Strength battled with fear in her heart, but it was the fear that fed the strength. Fear for Mark, and for Rhys. If her brother did what he planned, someone from the ward would recognize the bold youth, and go to Guy or Mortimer later to tell of the house where the son of Marcus de Brecon had been living.
She had no choice, and that was a good thing. Given one, she would have run and run. She would have spent her life running, and never lived in the present again.
Right now, in this garden, the present existed as it never had before. Was it always like that at the end? Did a body's senses only completely come alive right before they perished? She plunged her hands through the flowers to the soil, and relished the sensation of cool darkness around her fingers.
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