Crimson Secret

by Janet Lane

  Joya closed her eyes, felt the moisture as it traced its way down her cheek. “I felt light. Happier than ever before in my life. I had moments when I thought of how it must feel in heaven.”

  Pru gave her a gentle smile and hugged her. “Giles loved you. He would be glad to know that you have found such happiness.” She released Joya and finished securing the gown’s neckline. “We have a busy day today, no time to think any more on this. We’re off to the abbey, and we’ll want to be sure to thank Kadriya for helping us. We’ll need to pick up our clothing at the tailors in the village.” She shook Joya by the shoulders. “And you need to cheer up and think of seeing Luke again after your special time yesterday.”

  Luke. He would leave her today. The floor seemed to sway beneath Joya’s feet. He would meet with York. Again her throat tightened at the grim thought that she may never see him again.

  Their time at the lake had been wondrous. Watching him leave today would hurt. Her shoulders grew heavy of a sudden, with a weariness of the constant worry for him. Save England for her, indeed. What transgressions had she done in the past to deserve a man who thought he could singlehandedly save England?

  Her mother was wrong. It was not to be that Joya would be a happy bride, wife and mother. Giles had been killed in battle, and Luke Bonwyk, Lord Penry, the man who had stolen her heart, would lose his head trying to save England for her.

  “Are you ready, Pru?”

  “Almost.” Pru placed her slippers into her travel bag.

  Joya lifted her bag and walked toward the door, each step an effort. To have shared such love, followed by bitter disapointment, had drained her.

  Luke was doomed. And she couldn’t help him any longer because she was going to be in what amounted to a cell, locked in an abbey with an army of monks.

  Pru turned toward her, a look of surprise on her face. “Did you hear that?”

  Joya raised her head, feeling rusty. “What?”

  “A herald.” Pru’s eyes widened and she opened the door. From belowstairs, Prince Malley shrieked. “Someone’s here,” Pru said.

  George and Cam appeared from the hall. “Visitors,” George said. “Half a dozen knights.”

  “Your father,” Cam said.

  Joya looked out the window, but it faced away from the bailey. “Are you sure?”

  “Green flag with three rings and a sword,” Cam said. “It’s him.”

  They clattered down the steps and outside, where Tabor was dismounting by the stables. The earthy smells of grasses and soil filled the morning air, and the early morning dampness made her hold her arms to her chest. “Sir John. Mistress Kadriya.” Tabor glared at Joya.

  Her heart faltered. Always hoping for his approval, she knew she would receive none on this day. She had betrayed and shamed him.

  Kadriya rushed forward to embrace him.

  Tabor returned the greeting and pulled back. “Godspeed. Thank you for sending word. I, too, have news.” He turned to Joya and her friends. “Where’s Penry?”

  “He must still be abed,” George said. “I’ll fetch him.”

  “Get him down here posthaste.” Tabor turned to Kadriya. “We must talk.”

  “The hall?” Kadriya asked.

  “Lead the way,” Tabor said.

  Joya followed her father as her friends lagged behind, uncertain whether to follow and too curious not to.

  In the hall, tension spread, a consuming web of unease that snared them all. Joya’s skin tingled as all eyes flitted from her to Tabor in curiosity. Joya fought to maintain her composure. She had attacked his knights, defied him by aiding the enemy.

  She reached for her father with the smallest of gestures, but something in his eyes restrained her. He stopped, squeezed her hand, and moved on in silence.

  The tables had been stacked by the wall. Tabor dragged a bench to the fireplace, scattering the rushes that covered the stone floor, and sat facing them. Wynter took one bench, and Kadriya took the other.

  “You’ll be relieved to know…” He looked across the hall to where Joya, Pru and Cam stood. “Joya, sit you next to Kadriya.” Joya complied.

  “You’ll be relieved to know that all of my knights survived. Not without pain or embarrassment. Apparently the only one seriously injured was Lord Penry.” Tabor glared at Cam and scanned the hall. “Where is he?”

  George appeared, pushing the heavy wide door open. “He’s gone.”

  Joya’s stomach seized. He left me.

  “Gone?” Tabor repeated.

  “Along with his horse and guards.”

  “Guards? Who gave him guards?”

  “He procured his own. At the abbey,” John Wynter said.

  Tabor grimaced in disbelief. “You let him?”

  “He sought—and was granted—sanctuary at the abbey,” John replied. “Joya and the others were granted sanctuary as well.”

  “So he is at the abbey.”

  “I think not,” George said. “The guards at post early this morn said they saw him heading toward Crete Hill.”

  “South,” Tabor said. “Away from the abbey. And John, you didn’t suspect for a minute he would leave?”

  “Having been given sanctuary? No. And forsooth I didn’t think he would ever leave Joya’s side.”

  Joya looked at her father and her neck heated all the way up to her ears.

  Tabor stood and paced, a sure sign for Joya that he had reached the end of his temper. He took two more passes, kicked the fireplace and launched his tankard into the fire. “God rot it!” He took a deep breath and turned to Joya, his expression thunderous.

  “Margaret did not raid Penryton or kill Luke’s brothers. Her troops did not attack there, either. She knows nothing of it. She’s deeply sorry it happened, and she is furious with you, Joya, for setting a known traitor free. She bids you return—Luke included—back to Coin Forest. She’s prepared to reduce his fine. But now he has sauntered off, carefree as a squire to the fair, to meet York.” He gestured at Joya’s friends, their backs pressed against the wall. “You believed the worst, and didn’t trust your queen. She showed compassion and generosity to you, and now I have to go back with this news.”

  He turned to Joya. “Since you’re so close to the traitor, where do you suppose he went?”

  Her father’s eyes were wild, and she flinched. “I don’t know. He told me he would see me this morn.”

  “And you believed him.”

  He scanned the room, sweeping Kadriya and John as well with his anger. “You all believed him.”

  * * *

  Luke hurried up the spiral staircase to the Christchurch tower, resisting the urge to sneeze as vapors from the pitch torches assaulted his nose. He emerged from the stairwell into a cold mist at the landing, and one of the most beautiful views in Devon. Dusk had thrown her wide cloak over the harbor. Tinges of purple still lingered in the growing darkness.

  The harbor stretched out before him in grand display, the inlets curving below like an elaborate kell being formed under a monk’s pen.

  Lights flickered from the dozens of wharf side cottages and, in the outer rings of the harbor, docked boats floated, their lights bobbing with the movement of the channel.

  “Lord Penry.” Wagg, York’s young commander from Ireland, sat at a table with Lord Harmon, a commander Luke had met in Ireland. But where were York and his allies? Wagg rose and approached him. His large eyes drooped at the corners, and his unfortunately large ears stuck out from his head like a bull terrior’s. His young, sturdy body carried him well, though, and his eyes were filled with intelligence. He shook Luke’s hand firmly. “Godspeed.”

  “Godspeed.”

  “I’m pleased to see you,” Luke said. In truth, he would rather have seen York. Though Margaret had confiscated all his lands and ordered his death, York was safe in Ireland. He was no doubt frustrated to be exiled, but the duke enjoyed the support of its people. The Irish Parliament had twice protected him from Margaret’s attempt to capture him in Dublin. Like
so many others, the Irish had come to hate the grasping queen and were solidly behind York in his bid for the throne.

  Why wasn’t York here? To Wagg he said, “When did you arrive from Ireland?”

  “Two days ago. We had to be watchful. The queen has her spies about.”

  Wagg placed a hand on Luke’s shoulder. “We were outraged to hear of your brothers’ deaths.”

  His sympathy pierced Luke’s heart anew with a terrible sense of guilt. Had Luke not aligned himself with York, his brothers would be alive. But yes, it was Margaret’s doing. And he would see her humbled, nay, destroyed. “Thank you.”

  “Another shameful incident of Margaret’s brutality in the name of the throne,” Wagg said. “However did you escape her in Coin Forest?”

  He thought of Joya. “A good friend’s bravery. I’ll need your help in being sure she’s protected, and her family’s name cleared. She’s currently claiming asylum at Cerne Abbey.”

  “Of course. All our supporters will be richly rewarded.”

  Lord Harmon approached, wearing his age in stooped posture and a limp. “Lord Penry.” He shook his head. “Never thought we would see you again.”

  “Nor would we have, had we not acted,” Wagg said. His smile was compressed, smug.

  How could Wagg have been involved? “You helped me?” Luke asked. “How?”

  Wagg shook his head. “What’s important is that you’re here. York has some directives for us.”

  “I thought he would be here,” Luke said.

  “He’s been delayed.” Wagg approached a table and rolled out a map. After a cursive scan of the tower he lowered his voice. “There have been several changes in our plans.”

  The map he unrolled detailed the south of England, encompassing the Irish Sea and the English Channel.

  “York and Warwick plan to sail the Channel to Calais. Your Irish troops are due to arrive here from Dublin within a few days.”

  “Forgive me,” Luke interrupted. “But I won’t lead the troops.”

  “Sorry.” Wagg held up his hands. “Poorly worded. We know you’re not a commander. You’ll accompany the troops. Originally, you would all have gone north to repair the bridge.”

  “Yes,” Luke said. Margaret’s troops were marching toward that area, preparing to take York’s Denbigh castle. Luke was to have repaired a critical bridge that would allow York’s men to more quickly intercept them.

  Wagg’s mouth spread in a satisfied grin. “From my sources in Coventry we have learned that Margaret has changed her route. She’s headed to the east coast.”

  “We have benefited greatly from your spies,” Lord Harmon said. “That, and your experience.”

  Luke raised an eyebrow at the groveling fool, fawning over a superior half his age, trying to better his military position. Such posturing was yet another reason Luke chose to avoid people in general, leadership appointments specifically.

  “Thank you, Harmon.” Wagg turned to Luke. “Margaret is now planning to attack Sandwich instead. Rout the Yorkists when they arrive from Calais.”

  Alert, Luke leaned forward. The most direct route to Sandwich would take them to Redstone, where Luke’s uncle and cousins lived, where he had spent many of his summers. He recalled when he was ten, when his brothers had tried to cut his swing. Worry for his family began to mount.

  Wagg returned to his map. “York and Warwick will eventually reach London.” Wagg pounded his chalk on the map. “And Margaret wants to reach London, too. To do so, she’ll have to cross the Red Bridge.” He marked the location. “We’ll be ready for her.”

  Luke’s heart stuttered. Wagg had marked his uncle’s bridge.

  “You’ll be there ahead of time,” Wagg continued. “The bridge has five spans. You’ll have time to compromise the bridge at midway.”

  Luke grabbed Wagg’s arm, stopping his vicious chalk strokes on the bridge. “You realize it’s a residence bridge? There are businesses. Homes. Families on it.”

  Wagg jerked his arm free. “Unfortunate. But necessary. Hear me out. You’ll advance the Irish—”

  “I helped recruit, but I’ll not lead the troops,” Luke said. “I made that clear from the beginning.”

  Wagg waved his objection into the air. “We know, we know. We have a couple men in mind. The Irish will challenge, and Margaret will have no choice but to answer if she’s to proceed south. She’ll relish it, actually, because they will outnumber us, as they did at Blore Heath. Once they’ve populated the bridge—and it will accommodate over fifty cavalry—you’ll rip it out from under them, and we’ll annihilate them.”

  Wagg made two bold strokes with his chalk, creating an “X” on his family’s bridge.

  Quiet roared in Luke’s ears. His role in all this was to repair a bridge to hasten York’s travels. Now it involved destroying his family’s bridge and killing families and royal troops. “No.”

  Wagg raised his droopy eyes. “Perhaps you miss the good fortune of all this. A quick victory at the Red Bridge and you’ll save thousands of lives. It will be an end to all the fighting.”

  “I won’t be a part of it.”

  In a dramatic move, Wagg held up the map and shook it. “We need you. You know the bridge. Its design, its strength, its weakness. This war has been raging for five years, and Margaret shows no signs of quitting.”

  “I’m a bridge maker.”

  “England’s best. And you hold England dear. That’s why York sought you out. York is counting on you. I am counting on you. England is counting on you. Do you not wish to end the plundering and lawlessness? Do you not wish to end the killing of innocent people like your brothers?”

  Luke’s chest burned from a raw, primitive grief. He could never undo the events that caused their deaths, but he could avenge them by stripping Margaret of her power so she could do no more harm. As he had so often told anyone who would listen, to save England, Margaret must be stopped.

  But the Red Bridge. His uncle’s bridge. To defeat Margaret, would he be forced to destroy it?

  Chapter 13

  “Thank you,” Joya said, shrugging out of Kadriya’s overly long red gown.

  “We’re all so relieved to have you home again.” Effie’s voice was soft as she helped Joya out of her chemise. Her grey eyes revealed worry. “You look awearied. A good night’s rest will help.”

  The trip from Cerne Abbey had been tiring. Her body, this morning thrumming from her time with Luke, had long since cooled and she faced a new truth. Luke was gone.

  Camilla, Pru and George had left her father’s traveling party at Ilchester. The remaining miles had stretched forever. Lord Tabor rode with his knights and Joya remained locked in an invisible cage of regret that she had caused the deep worry lines marring his face. They had finally arrived in Coin Forest to a subdued village and household. Margaret and her troops were gone, along with Lord and Lady Onslow and their household.

  Now the sight of her home tightened her throat—the church, the ancient oak where Kadriya had fed her doves, the hill and memories of sliding with Stephen—all had been a balm to her soul, and she was prepared to sink into the soft pillow of home.

  But all had changed, and she had caused it. Peter manned the gate. He had opened it slowly and stared at Joya, his eyes wounded, bearing no trace of his former ardor and admiration. His lack of warmth silenced her and stole her smile.

  She had been acknowledged by a perfunctory glance from the guards. In the castle, Maud, Meagon, Martin, and the kitchen maids gave her a cool welcome. Their eyes held a reserve that had never been there before, as if Joya were a stranger on her first visit to Coin Forest. Her plan to free Luke had seemed innocent because no one was physically injured, but it had placed the knights and servants at risk of losing their homes and positions in Coin Forest. She had betrayed their trust.

  And it had all been for naught. Had Joya not intervened—had Luke been here, the queen would have arrived and asserted her innocence of having killed Luke’s brothers. Margaret may ha
ve pardoned him. Reversed the fine. Luke would have spent time with her, seen her compassion and goodness, and he may have shifted his loyalties back to the crown.

  Now, she would never know.

  Joya washed the dust and grime from her arms, and bathing revived her. She was finally alone with Effie and she could find out what had happened during her absence. “So you saw the queen, Effie? Did King Henry come, also? And Prince Edward?”

  “The king and prince remained in Coventry. Margaret arrived alone. I helped prepare Lord and Lady Tabor’s chamber for her. She is dainty, and very beautiful. Her travel gown was a bright blue, with tiny ruffles of white lace at the hem. It was cool and smooth in my hands when I hung it to air. She was patient, and kind to me.” Effie wiped spilled water from the table top.

  “Did she see Hugh?”

  “Aye, in the hall, not privately. She expressed her sorrow at Hugh’s brother’s deaths, and the attack on Penryton. She had no part of it.”

  “Your mother was here,” Effie continued. “And Lord Tabor and the queen and Lord and Lady Onslow stayed late in the solar.”

  “Did they speak of me?”

  Effie gave a knowing smile. “Some of the kitchen and buttery maids… hmm, happened to be belowstairs, outside of the solar. It was a warm afternoon so the windows were open. Her grey eyes sparkled. “Meagon may have climbed the wall a bit to better hear. Your name was spoken, along with Camilla and Prudence.” Her smile faded. “And Lord Penry.”

  “And they said…?”

  “Lord Tabor spoke of your virtues. He mentioned that Lord Penry had saved you from drowning, and your loyalties might have been … compromised. The queen received his comments graciously, and …” Effie paused.

  “And what?” Joya asked.

  Effie studied the stone floor. “She became angry.”

  Dread seeped, cold and rancid, into Joya’s bones. Her plans had failed. She had sewn virulent weeds in her mother’s garden, and they would spread like a plague and kill all the good plants. And there was nothing she could do to right the wrong.