Crimson Secret

by Janet Lane

  What had happened to his mind, that he would flirt with her like some rascal at court, teasing her about—of all things—butterflies? What had possessed him?

  She had been so sad. He could not imagine why this spirited, exquisite creature could care for him. He had stolen her horse, insulted her. But he felt it on his skin, in her soft breath, in those wide, gloriously expressive eyes, in the way her lip trembled. He had only thought to apologize for his behavior, and had managed instead to dredge up yet more of it, grabbing her like some braying mule.

  He resumed his sawing.

  Now he would never make the rendezvous point, never join forces to defeat Margaret and restore peace and order to England. Hell’s fire, he probably wouldn’t make the summer solstice before Margaret relieved him of his head.

  He worried about his brothers, as angry as that made him. He was nothing to his brothers but the brunt of their jokes and cruelty, nothing but a threat to their security and positions in Penryton. Their prestige was of more import than England’s future.

  Luke rubbed his face with his hands. Why did he continue to care for such ne’er do wells as his brothers? Why did he feel so drawn to Joya, a forbidden woman? Mayhap he was so devastated with the certainty of his coming death that he had latched onto her as a diversion? Having reached the end of his days, did he see new hope for a happiness that had always eluded him?

  He tossed his saw to the bridge deck in disgust. What angered him most in his life were the condemnations of his father and brothers, and it appeared at the moment that they had been right all along. He was ineffectual, powerless and dense.

  That may all be true, but he owed York the truth. He must get word to him.

  * * *

  In Ireland, Dublin Castle rose before Richard, Duke of York, taunting him. The pitched torches stood like sentinels, lighting the gateway and reminding him of another castle, the one that held the throne that was rightfully his. He should have taken it after Blore Heath, but decisive victory remained elusive, and Parliament remained painfully neutral. Exiled in Ireland, York could only watch while Margaret stripped his properties. He shifted in the saddle and turned to his eager second in command, Simon Wagg. Wagg had big ears, a hint of his character, for the young man didn’t seem to let any conversation continue without his presence. He was reading a messenger’s missive. “Was Penry successful?” Lord Penry was overdue to have arrived at Christchurch.

  Wagg crumpled the parchment and slipped it into his tunic. “Nay. He was arrested.”

  “Sod it.” York shoved his opened palm at Wagg. “Give me the message.” Wagg had proven himself clever and capable, but he possessed a raw edge of ambition that worried York at times.

  “Pray forgive me, Your Grace,” Wagg said, hastily smoothing the parchment and handing it to York.

  It was as he had said. Penry had been placed under arrest at Coin Forest, under the care of one of Margaret’s most loyal barons, Lord Tabor. And the queen had fined Penry a thousand pounds.

  “God’s nails. If he pays that large a fine, how in Hades can Penry continue supporting us?” He shook his head. “I grow weary of the queen’s good fortune.” York stretched, trying to find comfort in his tunic, which seemed to have shrunk. He was gaining weight again, losing his fitness. The middle of May—he would turn forty-nine in September. The crown owed him over thirty-eight thousand pounds, funds he had advanced in the name of King Henry over the years. He wanted repayment, but the harlot Margaret had spent it all to destroy her enemies, mainly him.

  York needed to retire Henry without killing him and take the throne. Lord Penry was a secret and vital part of their plan. York had sent reinforcements for him, but not in time. “How can she continue to be so godrotting lucky?” He fisted his hands, wanting desperately to choke the power-hungry life out of her.

  King Henry had lost his mind, wandered aimlessly, speechless for over a year. How could he possibly have sired the son Margaret delivered after seven barren years of marriage? True, he had bouts of intellectual clarity now and then, but they were unpredictable and for brief bits of time. He needed to be relieved of his position and allowed to live out his days in peace. That wouldn’t suit Margaret, though. She dragged her husband like a puppet from battle to battle so she could put her bastard son on the throne when Henry finally died.

  “Do you think they found it?” York asked.

  “The plan?” Wagg said. “Nay. Not the real ones, at least. They found what we wanted them to find.” He referred to the misleading plans Penry had carried.

  York prayed their attack plan would work. “Are the Irish troops ready?”

  “Yes,” Wagg said, “I sail with them on the morrow.”

  “Excellent.” He and Warwick were preparing what would be his most organized attack against the royal forces.

  Warwick. Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, the wealthiest and most powerful nobleman in England. If their plan worked, it would break Margaret’s grasp on the royal army, unseat the feeble King Henry and restore order and dignity to England. This would be the coup de grace that would end the festering division and lawlessness of the realm, left floundering since Margaret managed to convince Parliament to remove York as Protector five years ago.

  The plan was daring. From France, York’s brother-in-law, Salisbury; Warwick and the Earl of March would sail from exile in Calais to Sandwich, on England’s east coast.

  From Ireland, York’s ships would sail into the English Channel and release a thousand Irish troops near Christchurch. Lord Penry would repair a bridge that would enable the Irish troops to travel quickly to London, join Salisbury’s six thousand troops and crush Margaret’s ragged mercenary army. York would ascend to power, retire Henry and exile his foul French queen.

  “We need to free Penry,” Wagg said.

  York nodded. Penry, an odd man whose voice held an influential power, possessed a strong conviction that fired men’s loyalties. Were he not so reclusive, he would have made a fine commander. York had seen it for himself when Penry was last in Ireland with them. With just a short, impassioned speech, Penry had managed to recruit hundreds of Irish to travel with Wagg to England and fight the queen.

  “Wait.” Wagg slapped the saddle, startling his horse. “I have a plan.”

  Wagg was building a reputation for military cunning. “What do you propose?”

  “Take advantage of Margaret’s reputation for cruelty and revenge.”

  “That sounds good,” York said. The queen had been known to kill some of her own commanders on the field who did not bow to her will. “How?”

  “We’ll take the Bonwyk treasury. All will believe it’s for the thousand pound fine Margaret assessed Lord Penry.”

  “A thousand pounds.” A fortune. It could strengthen his troops.

  “Penry’s treasury is likely more, much more,” Wagg said. “Penry’s known to be frugal, not at all like his brothers. Some say his coffers hold treble that.”

  Three times. Wagg was offering a key that could unlock three thousand pounds, held by an imprisoned nobleman who would lose it to Margaret, any way. It could buy the new, light German armor for his commanders. And provisions to sustain a march long enough to reach London with well-fed troops.

  He met Wagg’s eyes, bright with the rewards of his idea. “You, my friend, are clever beyond words.”

  “Then we must make haste,” Wagg said. “We need to get several knights under King Henry’s banners to Penryton … before Margaret does.”

  “Tempting, my friend, so tempting,” York said, “But no. I have been patient this long. I am making progress in Parliament. I’m loathe to betray Penry after his support, and contrary to Margaret’s claims, I am no thief.”

  Wagg visibly stiffened, but did not gainsay him. Good. But York made note to keep on eye on his zealous young commander.

  Chapter 9

  The assassin and his fourteen mercenary knights approached Penryton, a quiet, crenelated manor. Featuring none of the impressive towers and
artistic flourishes of more prominent demesnes, this was a big, staid structure, grey with age and hungry for improvements to its grounds and roads.

  It rose from the hill on which it sat with a curious elegance. With its sturdy curtain walls, the old fortifications had probably offered good protection for the Bonwyks over the centuries.

  The village lay at the manor’s feet, a village neither poor nor wealthy, several dozen homes and merchants—the usual blacksmith, butcher, blood letter and alehouse. As they approached, the acrid smell of pitch mingled with the tantalizing aroma of searing meats, roasts on spits and fresh baked bread. The sun had set, and the people were ready for supper, games, and more than a few tankards of ale.

  But the assassin wasn’t here to play, or eat, or drink. Wagg’s orders had been specific: take the treasury, transport it forthwith back to Wagg, and anything else of value was spoils. That suited him fine. He had learned early to put himself first when pandering to the whims and demands of royalty. One privileged whoreson king was as stained and cruel as the next. They wanted a castle for their riches, an executioner’s block for their enemies, good food, good women, good wine. Above all, power. And as soon as one learned to cater to the royal’s tastes, the current king would get his head lopped off and another one would be coronated with pomp and accolades. Same in Spain and France as here in England. He would follow orders, collect his fee and move on.

  A gaggle of prostitutes gathered in front of the tavern, threadbare dresses moistened to reveal their nipples. His groin responded, but he resisted. Time for that later.

  The whores looked to the banner he was carrying and started chattering. It featured gold lions rampant and fleur de lis—King Henry’s banner. Henry the Sixth—the English possessed no imagination when naming their kings. The banners meant royalty and royalty made the whores smell wealth. They responded with seductive poses and motioned their welcome to him and the knights who followed behind him, also carrying the royal bearings.

  Peasants appeared behind them, asking questions of his men. They had, of course, been ordered to ride in silence.

  They approached the portcullis, making no announcements, but their slow trip through the village had created an advance notice to the manor, and they were received immediately. Why would they not believe the banners and livery? Any man caught impersonating royalty would suffer torturous execution by stretching on the wheel.

  They climbed the steep slope, gained passage at the gatehouse and inner fortification curtain and entered the bailey.

  Three men stood at the main entrance, flanked by six mounted knights. The assassin assessed them based on the information given to him by Wagg. High boots, good leather, cotehardies of good fabric—had to be the brothers. Tall and muscular—had to be Christopher. The other, more slender—Humfrye. The third was shorter, lilly-skinned, with arms thin in their sleeves, thin but for his stomach sporting a paunch already. He must be Hugh. With his straggling chin hairs, he resembled a goat. One who spent more time at the tables than on a horse. The third, fourth and fifth born sons. Poor bastards. He had orders for all of them.

  “Let’s talk in the hall,” the assassin said. He addressed the Penryton knights. “You will wait here with the queen’s troops.” The assassin’s men formed a wall, blocking the Penryton knights’ path to the manor. He took four of his paid knights with him, but there would be no sword raised against a royal guard this night. The assassin quite enjoyed the invincibility the stolen uniforms had given him.

  The Bonwyk brothers proceeded to the great hall, nervous in their furtive glances to each other. Good reason to be afeared; their older brother had offended Queen Margaret, the king in skirts who currently ruled England.

  The assassin silenced his inner pity. To succeed, he must fortify himself. He hummed in his head as he always did, distancing himself from their dread, so he barely heard their words as they spoke them.

  In the hall, he produced a writ. He opened it, held it out to them, but would not release it from his hands. “It’s a writ of attainder. For failure to pay the penalty assessed by the crown to one Lucas Bonwyk, Lord Penry. The queen has sent us to claim his holdings and remove his treasury.” The assassin read it loudly, intending that the cluster of guards and manor folk all heard the pronouncement and abandoned any hope of interfering. This was, after all, a royal matter. Any insurgence meant instant death or, worse, torture.

  The brothers protested, as he knew they would, denying knowledge of the treasury’s whereabouts. The middle son Humfrye grabbed for the writ. The assassin pulled his dagger and stabbed him in the chest.

  Christopher lunged toward him and the assassin turned to face him head on, sword raised. The assassin’s knights pulled their swords and aimed them at Christopher’s head. With effort, the brother contained himself.

  When Humfrye breathed his last, the remaining guards and witnesses in the hall shrank back, clustering by the fire.

  The assassin sensed a sudden movement to his left and grabbed for the short goat brother but he wiggled free, darted behind a pillar and ran away. Screaming incoherently, he disappeared into the buttery.

  Sending one of his knights to capture the goat, he turned to the tall, sturdy one. “Let us look for the storehouse,” he said. He signaled Paul, his first knight. Paul struck Christopher with a club and punched him in the gut. He crumpled, and they dragged him down the steps to the lower chambers. He had a rough idea where the armory was. They’d check there first. He sent four other knights into the upper chambers. They were not leaving without the treasury.

  The wine cellar was impressive – 20 racks, each with 64 slots for wines, only three racks filled. Sign of a new austerity, perhaps? Christopher babbled about his brother, Luke, how secretive he was to them, how Luke had never revealed the treasure location to them.

  The assassin shut out the fear in the brother’s eyes, shut out the protests, the fervent vows. Must ignore any emotions from the condemned ones. To feel for others’ plights meant certain failure.

  Two hours later, they still had not located anything of value. Oh, several books. They had cut the chains securing them in the library and taken those, and the best wines, of course. He had run one of his own knights through when he found him coupling with a chamber maid. He would not tolerate neglect of duties. The maid was comely—he would see her later.

  Once he realized Chris wouldn’t reveal the treasury location, he killed him—no brother was to be left living—and they searched for the fat little goat. He was nowhere to be found.

  Frustrated, he located the mews, took the four best falcons, took eight good horses, set fire to the stables and left. They could sell the horses, tapestries and silver, but Wagg wouldn’t pay a single farthing if they were found out. They had best quit the village while the peasants still thought they were Margaret’s men. They’d ditch the king’s livery and get the hell far away from Penryton before dawn.

  * * *

  Joya entered the great hall. It was midday, with light streaming in the two large windows. Meagon’s red curls framed her freckled face as she supervised the half dozen maids at the large trestle table. Trays of dried rosebuds mingled with other trays of dried rosemary and orris, the chopped wood-like roots of iris flowers. They created a pleasant fragrance cloud that filled the cavernous room. Other trays on the next table held small bags of colorful silks and ribbons with which to tie them.

  Aye, that’s the way,” Meagon said with the same voice of easy authority her mother, Maud, possessed. “Put the old herbs in here.” She demonstrated, tossing contents of the spent sachets into a large bin. “We’ll be giving them to the parish.”

  The women washed the old sachets, while others stuffed the clean ones with fresh herbs for the storage chests and bed linens. They worked in a line, each performing their assembling tasks.

  At the other end of the hall, women scooped up the soiled rushes and swept the floors of bones and waste from a fortnight of dinners and suppers and begging dogs.

 
Yet more women balanced on scaffolding above the fireplace and doorways, sweeping the stone walls and tapestries of accumulated dust and soot.

  All would be made fresh and clean for the queen’s arrival. She had not yet told Tabor when she would come, but it would be soon, and the castle would be orderly for her arrival.

  The dust blended with the pleasant fragrances. Joya’s nose tickled and she sneezed.

  She missed her mother and worried about her increasing fear for Joya’s safety. Not having her here—much as she knew Stephen and Nicole needed her—made her wish all the more for her presence. The discord brought a strain to Joya. She wished to please her parents but when it came to Luke, it was as if all stores of her obedience had been spent, and she could no longer do their bidding. Not if the cost was letting go of Luke.

  She had stored each memory of the time they had shared at the bridge—his smile, the pleasure in his eyes, the playful teasing about the butterflies. Her heart had nigh burst when he held her. It was as if he were the sun and his warmth had burst from the horizon and reached the depth of her bones. She needed the feel of his skin on hers, of his lips on hers, of his eyes on her, a need that left her constantly off balance when he wasn’t near. With every breath she took, from the moment she wakened until the moment she lay down to sleep—yes, even in the dark she felt his presence and ached to be with him.

  She looked at the stairwell leading to the solar. Perhaps he was there. She must see him.

  She lifted a box of candles at the end of the table. “These ... I’ll take these to the solar,” she said.

  “Thank you,” Meagon came closer. “I took him his dinner earlier. He’s up there,” she whispered.

  Joya should suffer some degree of embarrassment at wearing her heart on her sleeve. She might just as well have written it on her forehead, “Mad in love.” Joya had gone beyond reason, and no longer cared.