by Janet Lane
Father Jeffrye shot a disapproving gaze at them, his disdain for music well known.
Oliver, Ilchester’s wiry, grey-haired butcher, repeatedly played a single note on his recorder while the others tried to duplicate it on their instruments.
Her brother Stephen plucked on his gittern, adjusting a tuning peg for each string. He stood tall, like their father, but his black straight hair, his brown eyes and walnut-hued skin were like hers, from their mother’s Gypsy blood. He had recently married and he and his wife, Nicole, were expecting their first child. They lived in Faierfield, a neighboring holding.
He noticed her, strode forward and folded her into his arms. “I heard what happened. God’s wounds! You could have drowned.”
She accepted his affection but wilted from embarrassment. “He caught me off guard.”
Her brother’s eyes narrowed. “Give me time alone with that Yorkist scut. Binding your hands and pushing you in the river. I’ll give him what he deserves.”
“No, Stephen. He didn’t push me. I jumped.”
“Of course you did. You were terrified. He’d be dead if I had my way. If he comes near you again, I’ll…”
“He saved my life.”
Stephen’s lips thinned. “I’ll kill him. Ransom or no, he’d better not touch you again.”
“He’s in the gaol. Queen Margaret will be pleased, and that’s the end of it.” Joya changed the subject. “You’re pale.” His forehead was warm to the touch. “Are you ill?”
“I’ve been better. Not enough sleep. I worry about Nicole, with the babe so close. Mother’s herbs are helping.”
At the mention of her mother, a soft ache formed in Joya’s chest. She yearned for the comfort of her mother’s wisdom and humor. Surely Joya’s problems would not be so large if she could talk with Sharai about her feelings, so rampant and mixed after her ordeal in the river. “Will she be coming back home soon?”
He tugged a strand of her hair. “I’m sorry. I’m sure you miss her, but Nicole is suffering from fear for the babe. I’ll be leaving early, though. I don’t want to be away from her for long.”
“Binnie is there. I’m sure he’s tending to her, too.”
Stephen tilted his head, watching her. “Binnie’s at university. You know that.”
She pressed her hand to her forehead. “Of course. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
“Given your ordeal, ‘tis understandable. Any way, I only came because Nicole insisted I do. She would make my life miserable if I didn’t.”
Joya managed a smile. Nicole, Stephen’s wife, was spirited. “Smart man, you are.” She returned to her duties and gave her brother and the other musicians colored bands and ribbons. “Wear these on your right sleeves tonight.” At their lack of response, she turned to Oliver. “Would you please remind them why it’s important?”
“The ribbons match the small flag poles at the high table. Yellow flags will be raised when games are on, blue for jugglers and mummers, red for strings and harps.”
“And you’ll tie the matching ribbon on your instrument to identify it as yours,” Joya said. “When you’re not playing you can check it in at the table by the rood screen and Dame Edith will see they’re kept safe. This way there’ll be no stealing of instruments like last year. Understood?”
They nodded.
“I’ll be at the head table during supper if you have any problems,” Joya said. “Don’t trouble the priests or the vicar. I’ve promised them all will run smoothly.”
The men returned to their instruments, but her brother still looked troubled. “You came to play,” she told him, “Stop worrying and play your favorite song.”
Stephen laughed. “You know me too well.” He strummed his gittern, the melody teasing and familiar. Recorders and flutes joined in and Joya started humming.
“Come on, Joya, sing for us,” Oliver said.
“Yes, sister. Take your own advice and sing your favorite song.”
The music transitioned into the chorus, and Stephen cocked his head, encouraging her.
“Not by myself, I won’t.” Joya grabbed Camilla and Pru, who had escaped from Dame Edith. Holding hands they danced by the corner of the stone wall under the fragrant apple blossoms. Joya sang the chorus, “The rising of the sun and the running of the deer, the playing of the organ, sweet singing in the choir.”
Father Jeffrye scowled in disapproval. Joya gave him her best smile and kept singing. How he could remain so dour on such a pleasant day mystified her.
Camilla and Pru sang the second chorus. The vicar arrived with the gravedigger and a half dozen of the church helpers. They joined hands, making a larger circle, and sang lyrics that told of the cycle of life. Joya pawed the earth, mimicking the deer in spring. Stephen’s pleasure with his gittern, the smiles on her friends’ faces and the earth, soft and moist under her feet warmed Joya’s heart.
The Morris dancers lifted their reindeer antlers in front of their heads and joined the circle.
“Father Thomas.” Father Jeffrye’s voice interrupted, cold and angry as he strode to the vicar. “A word.” His tone gave no indication that his position as village priest was inferior to Father Thomas’ position as parish priest. Father Thomas remained gracious, though, and followed him. They huddled at the corner of the stone wall, close to Joya and her friends and spoke under the music.
“Dancing.” Father Jeffrye spit the word. “The bishop has ordered there be no dancing. We are to bury Beltane and offer prayer and devotions. No heathen worship, no going a-maying. No games. No eggs.”
“Jeffrye my friend,” the vicar said with a gentle smile. “The young will do what they do, with or without us. To be glad for spring is not shameful.”
Camilla pulled Joy and Pru closer. “His face is so sour a pickle would be sweet. I hope I never get old and angry like that.”
“Maids gadding in the forest with men, that’s not shameful?” Father Jeffrye harrumphed. “And wearing green gowns!"
“What’s wrong with green gowns?” Pru asked.
Joya turned to her. “He’s being sarcastic. Green, what your gown becomes from lying on the grass," she lowered her voice. “On your back.”
Pru’s brows remained furrowed, uncomprehending.
Joya rolled her eyes. “While your lover shoots the bolt.” ‘Twas a crude expression for coupling, but Pru finally comprehended and covered her mouth, already spreading into a wide grin.
Joya and Camilla laughed.
“…and I say you should forbid dancing, Father Thomas. Or…”
“You’ll contact the bishop? Do so if you must, my dear friend.”
“I am not your friend.”
“The bishop knows my position.” He placed a hand on Jeffrye’s shoulder. “If you choose not to dance, we will not plague you.”
Father Jeffrye stormed toward Joya, his brows drawn in anger. He grabbed her wrist. “We’ll not linger here. We’re returning home.”
“Home? I’m overseeing the musicians and mummers,” Joya said. “I’m staying.”
“You will come with me now.”
“I’ll be with her,” Stephen said.
“You’re leaving early for Faierfield,” Father Jeffrye pointed out.
“I’m eighteen,” Joya said, unwilling to be pulled away like an errant child. “I’ve reached my majority.”
“While here you are my ward,” Father Jeffrye said. “You are unwed. Still a maid, and you have not deported yourself properly. Your father trusts me to protect you.” Father Jeffrye pulled her aside. “Think you that I cannot hear? That I miss the profane words you utter, words of sin and fornication that bring you and your friends to laughter? Even as a child you shunned your studies.You prefer the tongues of gossip to dutiful conduct and piety.”
Would that she could muzzle his harsh judgments. Joya watched his finger wagging, so like a horse’s tail at sunset, batting flies. The image brought a smile to her lips.
Which did not go unnoticed by Father Jeffrye.
The priest’s eyebrows melded into a deep frown. “You failed miserably at letters and disappointed Sister Issabel. From what I just witnessed here, ‘tis easy to understand. You lack industry, and you have lost your modesty. I shall return you to your father before you lose more than that.”
Joya's spine stiffened at the reminder of her weaknesses, but she held her tongue with the thinnest of threads. She would not anger her father by publicly challenging the gnarly old priest. And well she could not, for she could never escape the shadow of Sister Issabel’s condemnation.
She embraced her brother. “Godspeed, Stephen, and Godspeed to Nicole.” Gathering Pru and Camilla to her, she whispered, “I'll be back before the egg toss.” Smiling past her anger she took the owly priest’s arm and they walked back to the stables to get their horses.
Peter joined them for escort. She swung onto Goldie and paid close attention to her reins to avoid Peter’s longing gaze, and they left the merry melodies of Ilchester behind them.
At Coin Forest, Joya found her father in the stables, brushing his horse down after returning from Faierfield where he had visited her mother.
Joya approached, running her hand over the well-worn wood of the stall.
“Why aren't you at Ilchester?” he asked.
“Father Jeffrye,” she said. “I was committing the sin of dancing, so he brought me home.”
Her father laughed. “He gets more grim with every year.”
“Save me from him. Please.”
He still takes great pride in his illuminations,” her father said. “I'll get him busy copying one for me today, and he’ll be too busy to worry about you.” He tweaked her nose lightly. “We can be back there by supper.”
Joya ventured the next subject. “How's Mother?” She had been proud of Joya's ability to defend herself in spite of her size. She had to have been disappointed that Joya had let her guard down with Lord Penry and been abducted.
“Hale. And Nicole is taking a clear broth now.”
“Thanks be.”
“It's your mother and her herbs.” Pride thickened his voice.
“Did you tell her—”
“About Penry? Yes.” He stretched, holding his side. “She might have cracked a rib hugging me when she learned you were safe.”
Joya twisted her sleeve. “What did she say?”
“She said to give you this.” He handed her a small package.
Back in her chamber, Joya excused Effie and sat alone by the dying fire. Her mother's package was thin, half a foot in length. She unwrapped the white linen and found a necklace fob that smelled suspiciously of duck fat and ashes, one of her mother's spells for safe travel, she guessed. She continued unwrapping and found her mother's dagger.
* * *
Later, Joya crossed the bailey, heading for the mews. She passed the outside ovens where Maud, the head cook, supervised the baking of dozens of meat pies. As a new arrival from Hungerford many years ago, she’d had fiery red hair. It was now thinning and faded, but her eyes remained bright and hale.
“Joya!” she cried, hugging her, and Joya became lost in Maud's magnificent bosom. “I about popped my peplum when I heard what befell you a’hunting. Thank the saints you made it home safe.” She lifted Joya's chin. “You’re looking tired, sweetling. And hungry.” She stabbed meat from the fire and waved it in front of Joya's face. “Sausage? Made the way you like them.”
Joya accepted it, giving it an appreciative smell. She bit through the crisp skin and the flavor of the meat burst, rich with juices and butter and extra nutmeg and salt. Her favorite of all, even over mortrews. She closed her eyes, savoring it. “Perfect.”
Maud leaned forward. “I saw the filthy soldier.”
“Who?”
“Lord—what’s his name? Embly? The pig Yorkist who almost killed you.”
Joya straightened. “Penry. He saved my life, Maud.”
Her eyes narrowed. “He stole you away. Bloody traitor. I had to follow orders and brought him bacon and barley bread this morn. If it was up to me I would have brought him eight-day porridge green with mold. And he’s cold as a winter draft. Barely spoke a dozen words.”
“What did he say?”
“Asked to be left alone.”
“Alone? What an unnatural request.” Did he ask about me? Joya dared not let the words pass her lips.
Maud fluffed Joya’s flowing sleeve. “Not everyone’s like you, Missy. You like to fly with the flock, always have. From the time you could talk, you’ve never been alone.”
He must not have.
“Any way, this Lord Penry. Full of himself, full as a tick, he is.” Maud’s eyes narrowed. “Queen M will have him drawn and quartered. That’ll be the sight.”
At the thought of Luke being tortured, Joya swallowed convulsively. “He could have escaped but he chose to help me.” Her emotions swirled. “You’ve told me many times how my father saved your life.”
Maud’s mouth softened into a gentle smile. “Aye. I was fourteen and if not for your Da, I would have been done for.”
“You’re thankful, yes?”
Maud’s brows rose. “I would die for him. I told him, too, he needs me, I’ll always come when he calls. Him or Sharai, they know that.”
“So you can understand how I am thankful to Lord Penry. I do not wish him to be tortured.”
“He’s an enemy to the crown, and your Da is loyal to the king, always has been! It would grieve him beyond words to hear you speak thusly. Penry is a Yorkist,” she hissed.
Joya thanked her and walked away, her legs and heart heavy. Peter had talked of Penry—Luke—on the ride back to Coin Forest. He was from a village not far from Coin Forest, but Penry didn’t participate in court or local matters. Prudence heard he carried important information about York, and maps. That York was coming soon and Salisbury, too, as the king's messenger had predicted yester morn.
She was touched by Maud’s gratitude toward her father for saving her life, even after twenty years
Luke had done the same for Joya, and at great personal cost. Now imprisoned, he faced the wrath of people loyal to the king, people like her father, like Maud. They would cheer his death, and she hadn’t thanked him for such a sacrifice.
His selflesness didn’t change who he was—a Yorkist, after all—but it imbued him with honor. Dignity.
Camilla and Pru’s proposal could work. She could express her gratitude in the most sincere of ways by saving his life in return. If she could convince him to change sides, he would be spared and appreciated for the hero he really was.
Of a sudden her next step was clear, a higher purpose than merely convincing her father she could be more than a common dolt.
She looked back toward the mews. She would see Diana later. This could not wait.
Her leather slippers settled into the descending stone steps, made concave from wear through centuries of use. She passed the storehouse, the treasury, down a narrow hallway to the dungeon. Untouched by fire or sun, a persistent mold clung to the steps, an earthen smell no amount of scrubbing could dislodge.
She pressed her hand against her heart to settle it. Composed, she reached the guard’s table, manned by the captain’s son, a short man of twenty years with massive forearms. Martin had also been Giles’ best friend. Since her fiance’s death, he had been especially protective of her.
“Martin.”
“Mistress Joya,” he said, eyes widened.
“I have brought a poultice for Lord Penry. For his wounds.”
He hesitated. “Don’t you think …”
“It’s all right. Stay at your post and I’ll call for you if need be.”
“Keep him at arm’s length.” Martin swung the heavy door open. “Penry. You have a visitor.”
Martin turned to Joya, brows furrowed. “Call if he so much as breathes crooked. I’ll be right here.”
Heart throbbing in her ears, she entered the dark chamber.
Chapter 4
A fire burned in the cor
ner fireplace, too small to dispel the chill and stale rot of old rushes. She and Stephen had played here as children, taking turns at being the prisoner and the executioner. She viewed it now through older eyes, a place where one could languish and die. But her father used the gaol rarely, and he loathed the practices of humiliation, starvation and torture.
Other than the rushes, the chamber held no smells of filth or disease. Any night pots had been removed, and no vermin moved in the shadows.
The gloom gave way to a grey-tinged vision of the chamber.
Pitch burned in a single wall sconce, fouling the air with its acidic smell. Spider webs laced a pair of chains anchored to the wall. Luke sat on a stool by the fire. The light bounced off his features, now further shadowed with early growth of a mustache and beard. His light brown hair split in furrows, as if he had run his hands through it in exasperation. A lock of it broke away from the rest, brushing his eyebrow. A wisp of defiance, a reminder of his unpredictable temperament, vulnerable one moment, possessive and conquering the next. Firelight flickered in his eyes, revealing midnight blue.
At sight of them a thrill chased through her, and she twisted one of the yellow ribbons of her coronet. “I had to see you.”
He said nothing and rested his hands on his knees, the chains binding them clinking as he changed position. An angry scratch slashed across his cheek, running dangerously close to his eye. She remembered the dense growth at the river’s bank, and his warning to close her eyes to protect them. He had risked his sight to grab the branches to save them. He coughed, a dry, short cough and his mouth tightened in a line of ill temper, insolent, as Maud had said. He was a man immersed in treachery and plans that spelled death to the red rose, her people. Her father’s people.
He raised his chin to meet her gaze and it became suddenly difficult to breathe. Was it hostility that dwelled behind that gaze, or arrogance? A sliver of fear?
The chamber remained still with his lack of greeting, his lack of invitation, his lack of any verbal acknowledgment that she had come to this dark, dank place to see him.
She should leave but her commitment to help him held her firm to the reeds and stone. He must think me a total idiot. Say something! But her tongue lay thick and limp in her mouth, and his presence hummed in the air between them. She approached one slow step at a time, watching his face for a response that didn’t come.