by Janet Lane
Her purse string frayed easily with his knife, freeing her hands. He stored the knife, keeping a firm grip on the log.
She wrapped her legs around him, pulling them both under. Luke had anticipated that and taken a deep breath. Water filled his ears and turned the world green. A sharp piece of debris stabbed into his side, but he held firmly to the log. The river churned and tossed them, and Luke was reminded of the Redstone River, of daring jumps off the swing. Their biggest enemy would be panic. He held her to him to give her comfort and kicked forcefully to the surface.
Her gurgling gasp told him she had taken in water. The burden of her skirts had to be heavy, so pronounced was the panic on her face. She wrapped her legs tighter around him, and he couldn’t move.
They continued to drift with the current, treacherous with spring flow and fallen tree limbs.
“What’s your name?” They narrowly avoided getting sucked into a backwater whirlpool.
“Joya.” Her teeth chattered.
“Joya, let go of my legs so I can get us to shore. Trust me.” Dizziness began to overtake him, and fear visited. He had spent much of his strength surviving the highway attack and getting them this far. They may both drown if he didn’t get them out soon, before his strength ebbed.
With a sharp glance she released him.
Panting from the effort to keep them upright, he finally saw an opportunity. “See that? He gestured to the bank with a toss of his head. “It’s not so steep. I’ll grab branches. Pull us out. Keep your head down. Protect your eyes.”
He swam closer. An opportunity came, a few branches from the trees above with space for them to get out. He grabbed a sturdy branch with one hand, holding her securely with the other.
The current slammed them against the bank. Branches scraped his face. Fighting a wave of alarm, he opened his eyes. He could see. The branches had not blinded him. Relieved, he dug his toes into the bank, but it was slick, soft. “Dig your feet in,” he told her. “Try.” They managed to get a first foothold, then another, but the bank was steep and they kept sliding.
Small stars winked in front of him, obscuring his vision. Such a foul way to die. The duke was expecting him at Christchurch, counting on his report. He thought of his brothers for the first time in months. This was his death day.
Something slapped Luke in the face. A rope. “Here. Take this.” High above, a tall man dangled a rope. He couldn’t see the details of his face, but it would be a good wager to say it wasn't friendly.
“Father!” Joya's voice rang with excitement, confirming his fears.
Devils. Dreading the consequences, Luke grabbed through the stars and took the very rope with which they would probably hang him.
Joya reached for her father and he pulled her from the river. She collapsed, sobbing.
"Joya. Dear,” her father said, holding her close. As if through a pillow she heard harsh shouting from Peter and the other men, and Lord Penry’s deep, angry voice in reply.
Her father broke the embrace. “I heard your signal and came quickly, but you were gone by the time I arrived. He must have—what happened?”
Joya told him how she had approached Lord Penry to see if he still lived, how she had discovered the white rose, and how he had surprised her.
Her father crossed his arms, and a muscle flicked at his jaw, a familiar, unwelcome signal to Joya. “What is it?”
“Careless. Approaching a stranger, alone. We taught you better.” He spoke softly, his voice devoid of anger, but his words stabbed her with shame. She had failed. Disappointed him. Could he see her weakness, guess her mistake at having been distracted by Penry? She could not meet his eyes.
* * *
Joya rode with her rescuers, headed home. They had been traveling for two hours and the mid-day sun shone grey through the growing clouds. An erratic breeze whipped around her.
They emerged from the forest and Joya shuddered. She was cold. Wet. Her yellow gown, now soiled, bunched in muddied shreds over Goldie. Her hair hung in stringy knots over her shoulders and petals of the spring flowers had fallen from her coronet into her face. She had lost one of her white calfskin boots in the river, and the other was caked with mud. She had fallen as far from pretty as she could without slashing sword and dagger at her person.
Joya tightened her legs against Goldie but the warmth didn’t travel to her chest. It was far worse inside. Her heart wavered, bruised beneath her ribs. Instead of pleasing her father with a few good birds and coneys, she had mindlessly placed herself in harm’s way.
She had failed to exercise the caution her mother, Sharai, had taught her.
Repeated lessons, she reminded herself, her gloom deepening. “This is serious,” her mother had said, over and over again. You’re small. There are bad men out there, at the market, on high street, at the fairs. Bad men who will try to hurt you, steal you, sell you.” Her mother had given her her first dagger at ten summers and taught her how to avoid capture, how to defend herself against men much larger than she by using her size, her flexibility, her speed, her teeth, her dagger.
Today she had possessed her dagger, but allowed herself to be distracted by this – this Yorkist, allowed him to catch her by surprise. The hunting day had been ruined by her idiocy. Like some brainless moppet she had fawned over Lord Penry. He had probably peeked through his lashes while feigning a swoon and seen her casting him sheep’s eyes. She shivered in shame at her failure.
She tried to dismiss her misery. It could have been worse. Lord Penry could have held her for ransom and cost her family what small fortune they possessed to buy her freedom. At the least she was still alive. She would find a way to redeem herself. She must.
As they neared home her mood brightened. The blanket of clouds had broken and it had become warmer. Coin Forest Castle sat in a valley painted with the special green of spring. The fields had awakened, dotted with livestock and yeomen homes that gradually gave way to larger merchant houses and the village. She knew the castle’s lines as well as well as she knew herself. It stood tall and rectangular, built from the stones of local quarries and roofed like a French chateau. A sliver of sun escaped the grey sky and streaked the brown stone lighter. They bypassed the village and passed the small church. On the right, the hill came into view where she and her older brother Stephen had raced their greased sleds on the grass so many summers ago.
They crossed the large moat and passed the oak tree where Kadriya used to feed her birds. Past the stone curtain Joya looked up to the wooden elevated walkway where her mother had almost perished during a siege.
Home. Joya wiped her eyes. Twice today she had been sure she’d never see it again. Twice she’d thought herself doomed, certainly in that horrible river. She patted Goldie and her heart ached with relief. She was alive. Muddied, ugly and shamed, but home.
Beside her, Lord Penry – she’d learned his name was Luke – rode with her father on his destrier. Now it was he whose hands were bound. He met her gaze, and she was taken again by his presence. She remembered his strength as he’d supported her in the river. The concern in his blue eyes, his patience even in the face of her brainless leap from Goldie to escape. He could have taken her horse and avoided capture, but he had sacrificed himself to save her.
She would have given him a smile and expressed her gratitude, but she had heard what they found in his boot—plans confirming he was a spy and enemy. She had seen him hesitate to save her from the river, and now his blue eyes looked past her, flat, unreadable. Joya bristled. He thought her stupid and didn’t give a lick whether she lived or not. He had correctly assessed the situation: capture was imminent, and had she drowned with bound hands he would have been tortured before death. Saving her was merely the practical thing to do. She shook the wisps of gratitude away. He was the king’s enemy and deserved whatever he received.
She reined her horse away from him, and her father took Luke to the west entrance that led to the gaol. She was glad to be free of his presence. The queen would dec
ide his fate.
Two bells later, Joya soaked in a hot bath in her chamber.
“More hot water, miss?” Effie, her chambermaid, paused, bucket raised, waiting. The young girl was shy as a deer but efficient and friendly.
“Thank you, no. It’s perfect.” Joya slid deep into the tub.
The door to her chamber opened and Camilla hurried in.
Prudence followed. She walked as she usually did, her arms folded across her chest, as if protecting her heart, her back bent sideways at a slight tilt, a young crab making her way toward her goal. To protect her feelings, Joya would never directly ask her friend of it, but she suspected an early injury. That didn’t explain the arms, though. Perhaps she was always cold.
“By the saints,” Prudence cried. “I can’t believe what happened to you. And he saved you from drowning.” She cocked her head. “Did he kiss you?”
Joya held the soap to her chest. “Have you been tipping mead? I almost died.”
“We were at the parish church helping with the firewood baskets, and we heard,” Camilla said. “We stopped by the gaol to see him.”
“Effie, that will be all for now, thank you.” Joya gave her maid a gentle smile of dismissal, and she left.
Joya turned to Camilla. “You saw him? And?”
“He’s hale. Doubtless tricked you with feigned injury so he could take you away for ransom,” Camilla said.
“He’s comely.” Prudence gave a slow smile. “Finely made. Eyes like the pools in Bath, so blue.”
An image came to Joya of his eyes, so intense as he held her in the swift current. His soft breath on her face, the cleft in his chin, the pronounced curve of his upper lip and how it had felt to have his strong arms hold her during the long run with Goldie to the Parrett River. A cool current of caution brushed her neck and she jerked up, sitting straight, arms braced on the sides of the tub. What was she thinking? He was bold. Dangerous, determined to destroy England. “He’s the enemy,” she said, pumping up her anger like venom to protect her from her own addle-brained weakness toward him. “He’s a maggot-brained Yorkist.”
Camilla raised a brow, a gesture that seemed to say that Joya had not the intelligence to think clearly. It was one of the few things about Camilla that annoyed Joya. “What?” Joya demanded.
“I do believe you are smitten,” Camilla said.
Fear rose like a stone in Joya’s throat. Camilla had seen it, her strange confusion about Lord Penry. How evil could she be, thinking such thoughts? Saints drinking the ale barrel dry! If her father heard about this… She lashed out at Camilla. “How dare you presume to know what I think?”
Camilla rolled her eyes, ignoring Joya’s anger. “It’s good you’re finally able to recognize a fine young nobleman when you see one.”
Prudence laughed. “Aye. We get you wed, Joya, and the men will look at us for a change.”
“Wed! My father would have my head.” Joya’s father was deeply loyal to the king and Queen Margaret. Last year, Margaret had spared Joya’s brother, Stephen, from the chopping block during a trial for treason.
“Lord Penry saved your life,” Camilla said. “He could have run. Stolen Goldie. But he stayed to save you. He saved your life and you don’t give a whit that he’s been imprisoned? ’Tis an outrage that they keep him in gaol. Like some common thief.”
Joya bristled. “Don’t let my father hear you speak thusly.” She pointed a dripping finger at Cam. “He’s a stinking Yorkist. I wish I’d never found him.”
“Ah, but Joya, they say he’s a bridge builder,” Prudence said.
Ah. That explained his thorough inspection of the bridge.
“That he knows all the major roads in England,” Prudence continued. “They found plans in his boot, plans about York’s men. He’s a member of York’s army. Your father has already sent a messenger to the queen. Had you not found him, Margaret would not have been forewarned.”
Camilla tapped Joya’s nose. “Yes, you should be glad you found him.” She rose and signaled to Prudence. “Let’s leave her to her ablutions.” She smiled crookedly. “And her wicked thoughts about Lord Penry.”
Joya cut through the water with her hand, splashing Camilla.
Camilla stepped aside, too late. She laughed, a throaty ha-ha-ha, as if she were really saying the word repeatedly. It sounded forced but amusing at the same time, always welcome at a festival and always causing a tickle behind Joya’s heart, and she couldn’t keep from joining Cam’s laughter.
Cam brushed her gown, a twinkle in her eye. “Consider this, my friend. Your handsome Yorkist can fetch a pretty ransom for the crown. And who knows? Lord Stanley switched sides twice, once from Henry to Yorkist, and back to the Lancasters. Margaret pardoned him and welcomed him back in her flock. Why not your Lord Penry?”
“He is most certainly not ‘mine.’” Still, Cam’s words struck a chord. Joya had forgotten that Margaret had exhibited a rare patience and generosity toward those who once sympathized with York. She nodded.
“Oh, and Lord Combwich defected, recall that?” Pru said. “And my uncle told me that Margaret pardoned seven noblemen who abandoned York at Ludford, last October.”
Camilla waggled a finger at Joya. “Use your charms. You could change Lord Penry’s mind, too. Now, what could you do to convince him to defect to Margaret’s side?” She smiled broadly. “And wouldn’t your father be proud of you if you could do that?” With a smug smile she joined Pru at the door and they left.
Chapter 3
The next morning broke under a clear sky. “Look at all the people,” Joya said. “And it’s hours yet before the bonfires.” Joya, Camilla, Pru and Father Jeffrye entered Ilchester, a market town in the hundred of Tintinhull, County Somerset. It had been a short five-mile ride to the town, which straddled the borders of Coin Forest and the neighboring village of Faierfield.
Camilla reined her horse to follow, smiling broadly. “Winter lasted for ever. Finally, it’s time for Beltane!”
“Not until tomorrow,” Joya said, knowing today was as important as May Day itself. Beltane, a three-day celebration to welcome spring. It would be held here in Pru’s village. Tonight there would be feasts, music, fresh ale and dancing. On the morrow, the old would sleep late and the young women would rise early to dally through the forest with the young men. They would collect flowering branches, and one lucky man would spy the perfect birch tree that would become the Maypole. One lucky woman would be named Queen of the May. And tongues would wag of what may have happened all that time the maids and men lingered in the shelter of the trees.
Joya wore her green brocade gown. Delicate circles were woven into the fabric, down the bodice and over the skirt. The special weave had caught her mother’s eye at the Winchester Fair. It reminded her of the rings in Tabor’s coat of arms, green on green, the Ellington colors. Sharai had sewn it into a form-fitting gown that befitted a day of celebration. Yet an edge of sadness dulled her happiness at wearing it.
Joya’s eyes misted. Ever since her father pulled her out of the river, odd sentiments had plagued her. She wondered that she could be amazingly happy and frightfully sad at the same time. Life had become precious, as had her family, her friends—but another sensation had settled in, one of vague fear. Diana had been found and returned at dawn, and instead of the joy she had expected to feel, she had burst into tears. She drifted in a whirlpool of feelings more erratic than the Parrett River.
And she kept seeing blue eyes, hearing a resonant, deep voice, and sensing trouble.
They dismounted and tethered their horses by the river Yeo. The temporary stables were crowded with wagons and people from the neighboring villages.
Across the stone bridge a steep stone stairway led to the top of the hill and the elegant Woodborne Parish Church. Originally built as a monastery, it had been converted to their parish church and perched with its new tall tower atop a high hill. The sweeping view went on for miles over the fresh green velvet of fields and trees.
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�Fleur de Lis,” Camilla said. Indeed, the churchyard was bright with hundreds of iris, tall purple heralds of spring. “And daezeseye.” She plucked a couple of daisies and wound them in her hair, the white pleasing against the dark blue of her gown.
To the east, shelters of oiled canvas had been stretched between trees for the hundreds who had come for the celebrations. Baking bread sweetened the air and the grounds buzzed with activity. Tables were placed near the outside kitchens and on the south side, men were building a wooden footing for the raising of the Maypole.
Joya had spent the last mile of their trip scolding herself. She must stop fretting about her father’s displeasure and about Camilla’s ill-conceived suggestion to woo Lord Penry to the Queen’s side. Think of your responsibilities. She was in charge of scheduling the mummers and Morris dancers. She would keep the games and entertainment flowing smoothly through the evening’s bonfires and dances.
The vicar, Thomas Dollyn, greeted them with his round cheeks and warm manner. Where Joya’s priest, Jeffrye, possessed a dark countenance, Father Thomas’s presence made the church light up during prayers. He embraced Joya. “My child, God has spared you and brought you home to us.” He patted her arm. “Be generous with your prayers of thanks.” He turned to Camilla and Pru. “Ladies, we could use your help in the misericord. Dame Edith is inside, waiting for you.”
Joya waved to her friends. “See you at nones. Or before if you can get free.”
They left and Joya proceeded with Father Jeffrye through the parish grounds, looking for her entertainers. She found them tuning their instruments on the side lawn. Her three dozen mummers and dancers were scattered near the cemetery, some on stools, others propped on a stone wall that kept the sheep out.