by Janet Lane
Martin was guarding Luke. She felt frost in the air as she passed him.
She found Luke in the solar. He faced the light of the window, his back to her, bending over something at the table. He turned, revealing his profile, with that slight dent in his forehead. A pile of small sticks rested in a pile to his left. He selected one of them and worked at something concealed by his back.
She stopped just past the entrance. “Forgive me for intruding,” she said. “I have fresh candles.”
He stood and faced her. His lean legs were covered in brown hose and he wore a dark brown girdle. His vivid blue tunic lit his blue eyes. There was an eagerness in them that she had never seen before, a new comfort and welcome, and his smile sent a shiver of wanting through her. “And I have something for you.” His voice stirred her, rich and inviting.
She approached him, unaware of her feet touching stone as she crossed the room. Her heart grew light as feathery lion’s tooth seeds floating in the air. Finally, she stood before him.
“Here. Let me take that.” Luke’s fingers touched hers as he relieved her of the box of candles. A gentle fire whispered across her skin wherever he touched, so exquisite it took her breath.
He slid the box on the table and turned back to her. “The rain kept me from working on your father’s bridge, so I … I made something for you.” He lowered his lashes, a demure gesture that further stole her heart.
He hid something behind him. She tried to peek.
“Let me explain first.” He took a deep breath, and she sensed the importance of the moment. “I learned to love bridges as a young boy. Pathways—rivers, roads, highways, the narrow trails animals make through the forests—they all fascinate me. Bridges create new paths.”
He reached behind him and presented a small bridge made of delicate sticks of wood.
“Everything about a bridge is good. When I build a bridge, I reach out into the air, into the space between separate bodies of land, and I unite them. I create a new path to somewhere.”
“It’s extraordinary,” Joya said. “And you made it.”
He smiled. “From nothing, I create a support structure—then the deck. It can be that simple, or larger, it can become an advanced study in grace—elegant arches, anchored to the earth with sturdy abutments.”
Joya watched the faraway look in Luke’s eyes, vibrant blue in their passion. His vision. He had opened the door for her.
The model, just smaller than a man’s shoe, featured those graceful arches he had mentioned. He handed it to her with the reverence one would offer his heart.
Joya held it, surprised at how light it was. She raised it, looking above and below it. How his man’s hands could have created something so small and detailed—she could not imagine. “There are houses on it.”
“Aye. It’s a residence bridge. Merchants have their shops on it. People live in its houses.”
“I … thank you,” Joya said. “I’ll treasure it.”
“It’s just a model. I’d like to show you the real bridges I’ve built.”
She swallowed. “I would love that.”
Joya lifted her face for his kiss, heart pounding.
The door creaked all the way open. Martin entered and stood just inside the solar, arms crossed. His eyes were narrowed, disapproving, and he made it clear in his stance that he would not afford them any kind of privacy.
Luke straightened and slanted a look of challenge at Martin, quickly replacing it with an amused smile. Taking her hand, he withdrew a proper distance and brought it to his mouth. His lingering kiss melted the bones in her hand. “Godspeed, my lady. I’ve enjoyed our visit.”
“As have I,” Joya said. Body humming, she carried her gift into the hallway, giving Martin a curt nod as she passed.
* * *
Early the next morning, noises woke Joya. A watchtower horn sounded. Visitors. Who?
Armor, metal scraping metal.
Her braiding had come undone during a dream; she brushed the loose hair off her face and acclimated herself. The green silk drapes—her bed. She parted them. Her chamber was still shrouded in the dark silver that precedes dawn.
Outside her window, the drawbridge groaned as it was engaged. Chains clanked as it lowered.
The sound of a few horses approaching, maybe four.
Men’s voices.
She had seen Luke at the bridge each of the last four days, had eagerly anticipated seeing him again today. She glanced toward her ablutions table where she had placed the model bridge he’d built for her. Still there, reminding her of his talent, but the urgent sounds outside stole the growing hope she had for his future.
They had come for him.
She flung her covers aside and spread the curtains, punching her arms into the sleeves of her night gown. Throwing on an outer tunic, she rushed without shoes past the solar and down the wide staircase to the great hall.
Outside, the air was moist, the earth fresh. Droplets of condensation clung to the railing. The dew-laden grasses soaked her feet as she ran through them.
“For God’s sake, let us pass.” A male cried out, his voice scraping hoarsely at the edge of reason. “I must needs see my brother, Lord Penry!”
Relief wilted her, relief that royal troops hadn’t arrived to execute Lord Penry, but alarmed that Luke’s brother had been driven to raw fright.
The drawbridge gears reversed, and the deck descended to meet with the banks of the moat.
Hugh, Luke’s pasty-faced youngest brother, rushed past, his face twisted with fear. He reached the steps, halted his horse and met her father. Hugh gripped Tabor’s arms, pulling at his sleeves. They spoke a few words and disappeared inside.
Joya ran through the bailey, vaguely aware of the small stones pummeling her bare feet as she raced up the steps.
Above stairs she found Luke, her father, Hugh, and Tabor’s first knight, Fritts Greenlea. Martin and several other guards had gathered at the top of the stairs, too curious to resist eavesdropping, too respectful to come closer.
In the solar, Tabor had seated Hugh and given him a flask of ale. Hugh gulped it in one tip. “I came straight here from Penryton. As God is my witness, Luke,” he spoke through labored breathing, evidence of his forty-mile race to Coin Forest. “They came after midnight. Must have been thirty royal knights.”
“From Covington?” Joya asked.
Luke glanced at Joya. “ How many knights came, Hugh?”
“Thirty!” Fritts said.
“Well, could have been twenty,” Hugh corrected. “They arrived without prior announcement, and it was dark—they arrived like thieves—no herald, no courtesies.”
Luke grabbed Hugh’s small shoulders and turned him so they faced each other. “Was William there?” Luke asked. “My steward,” he said to Tabor.
“Nay. He was at his wife’s birthing, at the midwife’s, in the village,” Hugh answered.
“Why was she at the midwife’s? Midwives travel to the laboring mother’s home.”
Hugh’s face reddened. “She should have been in confinement, but the babe came early. Her waters spilled while she was in the village.” He stumbled along. “They didn’t wish to move her.”
“Did the knights identify themselves? Whose were they?” Luke asked.
“That she-devil, Margaret’s. They presented a writ from her. Humfrye tried to read it and they ran him through. He’s gone.” Hugh glared at Luke. “We told you. We warned you, but you turned a deaf ear. And now,” he swallowed hard, “they ran two of our knights through, no protocol, no chance. They pulled our arms and bearings from the bridge, the towers, from the great hall.”
“You must be mistaken,” Tabor said. “Did they wear royal livery?”
“Aye. They came to raid the treasury,” Hugh continued.
“Take a breath,” Tabor ordered. “You’re claiming the queen’s troops attacked Penryton?”
“God’s blood. Yes. They took Father’s sword collection, the books. The spices. The tapestries—and still they wer
en’t satisfied. They demanded Christopher tell them where we stored our coin and jewels. He told them the truth. ‘We don’t know,’ he said. ‘Luke has never trusted us with that.’” They slit Christopher’s throat, Luke. Slit his throat and while he was gasping for air, the bastard shoved him to the ground like a slain boar. Chris is dead, too.” Hugh’s voice cracked.
Luke uttered a string of oaths. He looked to Joya. “Do you not see now? This. This is the Margaret I know. When she’s not recruiting men and giving out silver swans to her recruits.”
Joya shook her head. All she had heard of Margaret, throughout her life, had been the struggle of a devoted wife fighting for her husband’s right to the throne, fighting for the right of their son to inherit his birthright. “She would never do this.”
“She cares naught for England or her people,” Luke said.
A rain of protests fell from the stairwell, guards shouting allegiances to the queen and proclaiming the queen’s innocence.
“Silence.” Tabor closed the door. “Were they royal guards? You must be absolutely sure before accusing our king and queen. Were the knights in royal livery? Did they wear the king’s colors?”
“Red as the blood they drew,” Hugh said. “Lions on their chest. Royal killers.”
“What did the writ say?”
“Failure to pay the fine, a writ of attainder. That they were there to reclaim your holdings and collect the treasury.”
“Did they give you a chance to renounce York’s cause? To pledge your faith to the queen?” Tabor asked.
Hugh spit, his face distorted with disgust. “Murderers, all. The leader—a churl, low-born by his speech—he waved the writ in front of us, but didn’t let us see it. He demanded the treasury, and all we did was tell him Luke never told us where it is. That’s all! God’s blood, he even killed one of his own knights before he left Penryton.”
“That’s the kind of men Margaret recruits.” Luke gave a pointed look at Joya. “No wages because she’s wasted the royal treasury. Instead, she gives them license to raid.”
Luke approached Tabor. “They have brutally killed all but one of my family, Lord Tabor. Please give me an escort of two knights. I assure you we’ll go forthwith to Penryton. I must needs bury my kin and fortify my lands.”
“You can’t fortify them. Margaret has claimed them.”
“So you agree. She killed my brothers.”
“She would not do that without warning. She would have sent word to me.”
“Mayhap she doesn’t give a whit about you,” Hugh shouted. “Mayhap she’ll take your holdings next, and we’ll see how strongly you defend her after that.”
“You’ve been scared witless, Hugh. You don’t know what you’re saying.” Tabor slashed his hand in the air. “Silence. All of you. Penry, Margaret has ordered me to keep you here, and I will. I support my queen. I don’t believe she did this. We will learn the truth.”
Joya’s heart faltered. In light of what happened, her father would keep Luke here, waiting for certain death, without a chance to bury his family? Surely there was time for Luke to pay Margaret’s fine before her henchmen came to place Luke on the block.
“Father!” Joya grabbed his arm and walked with him to the cabinet where he stored his maps and court papers. She lowered her voice, showing respect. “His family has been murdered, by Margaret’s own men. Surely you will give him a chance to bury his family. Luke can still pay the fine. That and an apology and he’ll be freed.”
“Would that your mother were here to help you see, Joya. You try my patience with your loyalty to him. You heard for yourself the hatred he holds for Margaret. He refused to respond to her writ, and now he has caused his brothers’ deaths. You think he will now embrace Margaret’s cause?”
“I think he should have a chance to think through it. He has only now learned of it. Please. I’ll—”
Her father’s mouth thinned, and he pulled his arm free. “We are beholden to our king and queen.” He ground the words out one at a time, his voice stormy. “You will stop meddling. You will step back now, and be the perfect example of an obedient, loving daughter.”
His words pierced her heart. “I have always loved you.”
“Show it now,” he said. “Respect your family. Not this traitor, and the danger he brings to us.”
He gave her his back and returned to Luke. “I am deeply sorry for your loss, Lord Penry. I will keep you and your brother safe here, at Coin Forest. I strongly urge you to send word to the queen and make arrangements to pay your fine. Time is running out for you.” He leaned in, giving Luke a decided gaze. “Save yourself.” He gestured to Hugh, whose brow was wet with perspiration. “Save your brother, and save your father’s lands.”
“Fritts, please escort Hugh and Lord Penry to their chamber. Post a fresh guard every two hours.”
Fritts signaled to the men to join him, and they left the solar.
Tabor turned to Joya. “Margaret will judge our loyalty by how we help her with this.” He gave her a sad smile. “A blind man could see that this is hard for you, but I’m relying on you. Your family—everyone in Coin Forest is relying on you to stand with us on this.”
He took her hand, turning her to face him. “This is of critical import to England. His bloodline is good. He comes from a good family, but he is a professed enemy of the crown. He holds secrets that threaten King Henry’s life. Nothing—please listen to me, nothing you can do will help him.” He kissed her forehead. “Your bridge builder will choose his own fate.”
* * *
Joya walked through the field of purple iris blooms, listening to the occasional birdsong from the awakening trees. How, she wondered, could such beauty surround her at a time of such pain and uncertainty? She passed the maypole, now void of the colored ribbons, and stopped at the crest of the hill where the Woodborne Parish Church sat amid a field of white daisies. Far below the hill, the mid-day sun shot fingers of light onto the fields and trees that stretched to the horizon, an endless carpet of spring. The earth released the rich aroma of new growth, but dark storm clouds were pressing in, warning of heavy rainfall.
And danger. Distressed after Hugh’s terrible news and her father’s pointed reminder about loyalties, she had traveled to Ilchester right after mass.
She absently smoothed her hand over her moss green gown. The precision of the tiny pleats at the bodice, so predictable, brought her comfort. Would that her life could be so manageable and orderly. The moss green gown did not lift her spirits as she’d hoped. It was still lovely, though, a style that had to have challenged Sharai’s patience with a needle. The bodice was covered with tiny pleats, with a panel of diagonal pleats that traveled below her breasts, set off with clusters of white buttons at the neckline and wrists.
During her time with Luke in the solar—his gift to her, his kiss—he had revealed his passions. Their visits at the bridge over the last few days had revealed things about him, as well. He was a precise man, the way he stacked the wood, and more than a jot stubborn and rigid. He possessed a sense of humor, and he cared for his brothers in spite of their hostilities.
With time to think, Joya recalled the way Christopher had attacked Luke and kindled the hostilities; Luke had only reacted.
Beyond their differences, though, they were his brothers. What pain it must have been for Luke to hear how they had died such wrongful deaths.
Doubts still lingered about their murders. The brothers were loyal to the queen. Could the queen be so callous? She shook her head, unable to accept Hugh’s account of that night.
Luke was a good man. He was wrong to believe in York, but he was moved by a deep love for England.
Luke challenged her long-standing beliefs with difficult questions. Why did Joya and her family always refer to Queen Margaret, and not King Henry? Did that not prove that Margaret had already taken the throne for herself, leading the king’s armies, recruiting the king’s men, depleting the royal treasury? Killing loyal men? Did that not mean
that Henry, mentally infirm, fading for months at a time, had already abdicated the throne to her, when he should have abdicated it to the rightful heir, the Duke of York?
Such thoughts hurt her head. The nun’s condemning words echoed. She had been too stupid to learn to read when she was twelve and now, much older, she still struggled to find answers to difficult questions. Quick-witted men like her father, clever thinkers like her mother—they could see past the puzzling array of facts, and they had concluded that their queen was well-intentioned and good for England.
Now, doubts visited, and guilt burdened her as she started doubting her parents’ judgment. Until now, Joya had never created more than mischief. Her family was the fire of her life, offering light in darkness, warmth to chase the cold, fuel to heat her chamber and sweeten the great hall with life-sustaining meats and breads.
She planned to openly defy them.
Her heart pounded so hard in her chest that it became difficult to breathe.
If she didn’t act, though, thoughts of Luke’s fate terrified her. What would Margaret do to Luke? Torture methods flashed in her mind, weakening her knees. Mutilation. Getting broken on the wheel. Drawn and quartered.
And what of her? If she succeeded with her plans, her head may roll. Mayhap in front of her mother’s eyes.
She had reached the church steps. She pressed the latch and opened the front door.
Inside, Pru, Camilla and George sat at the collection table. Camilla had impressed upon George the barbaric manner in which Margaret had killed Luke’s brothers. She had reassured George that his part in their plans was very small and would have no repercussions for him, but he could save the Bonwyck brothers’ lives—whilst gaining great favor from Mistress Camilla.
Pru had been easy to recruit. She held a soft spot for Luke, and being the romantic, she was horrified to think that Luke would be killed after Joya had become so fond of him. She, too, had been angered by Margaret’s brutality.
At her father’s order Peter had accompanied her here, and his presence had given Joya an idea. She would create a sense of calm. Through Peter, she would convince her father that she had stopped meddling and become, once again, a dutiful daughter. If her deception worked, she would free Luke.