by Janet Lane
“Say it quickly. This is improper.”
“I’m sorry. All are asleep. ‘Tis very late.” His uncle had given her the best guest chamber, the one facing the east. She would see a beautiful sunrise on the river in a couple of hours.
She lit a candle from the small fire and settled at the table.
The quiet near hummed in his ears. He cleared his throat, despising social intercourse. “I meant no insult to you or yours,” he began. He scratched his nose, and his neck needed attention, so he scratched that, too. “It has been awkward for us from the beginning. I don’t understand why you’ve been so helpful. I have done naught but disrupt your life and cause damage to your standing.”
She did not respond.
“I need to know if you have told Lord Tabor where you are. I don’t doubt his loyalties for a moment, and if he knows, Margaret knows, as well, and I will need to leave posthaste.” He paused. “Please.”
She still said nothing, and Luke hesitated, wishing to gain his balance. “Does he know?”
“I will send word tomorrow.”
Luke calculated. That meant he had three, mayhap four days. “Thank you.” Afraid to sit lest he fall off the bench from lack of grace, and loathe to leave when there existed such tension between them, Luke remained standing.
“You thought that my mother was using me to spy on you.”
It was an accusation, not a question.
“It makes sense. First Kadriya sent you away with me, without escort, for several hours. And your mother allowed you to come all this way—against Tabor’s order—to see me again.”
“I knew you weren’t listening. Did you not hear what I said outside? My mother knows I care for you.”
“And how can you? You don’t know me. We met a fortnight ago. My family’s been murdered and I’m without lands and funds and you care? You said I care only for myself. I did not seek you out. Why do you care?”
She took his hand in her small ones. “I tried not to. I’m not foolish. Most of times.”
Raising her hands in his, he kissed each one. “You are beautiful, the woman of any man’s dreams. How could I be deserving of your affections?”
“I told you I tried to stop.” She pulled him down to her for a kiss. It was soft and dainty, the touch of a butterfly’s wing against his mouth. Her tongue slid under his lips, met his tongue, and slid deeper.
He kissed her chin, her forehead, her hair. He lifted her up above him, as he had in the lake, and let her slide down the length of him, her body soft and her hips and stomach and breasts massaged his body, setting him on fire.
He swung by the door, latched it, and carried her to the bed. They fell gently onto it. “The lake,” he spoke into her hair, lifting the beautiful black locks from her shoulders, up above her head, where it cascaded like swirls of ink in water. “I was loathe to leave you after the lake. You’re in my dreams. You’re there when I close my eyes.” He kissed her again, lingering, a sweet melting of the body as he heated up for her again, his body straining. “I will love you so much that you will remember that I think of you with every breath.”
“Joya.” He helped her out of her robe and chemise. He raised her arms above her head, kissing her arms up to her hands. He held her hand as gently as he would a dove, kissing it, licking the tender pads between her fingers. “I love your hands.”
Her sharp intake of breath when he sucked her fingers was satisfying, but he wanted more sighs, more excitement.
He caressed her shoulders, following his fingers with more kisses. He rolled her over to expose her beautiful back and kissed down each bump on her spine, each rib, and down to the dimples below her waist. He trailed his fingers lightly on the beautiful swells of her bottom, his touch light. She gasped and he hardened, clenching his teeth at the pleasure it brought him to hear her love sounds.
She raised her bottom to him and his fingers trailed between her legs, finding her sweet folds, wet with desire. He stroked her until she panted, and slid his forearm between her legs, rubbing her in long, smooth strokes. She cried out and trembled, and he could stand it no longer.
He turned her over and rubbed himself against her opening, delighting in the smooth wetness and the wild look in her eyes, the way she clutched his neck and tried to climb up to him.
He drove into her, and closed his eyes, seeing the fire behind his eyelids as she stroked him with her body.
She grabbed his bottom and moved wildly below him, a dance of desire he had never known before.
She said his name, a kind of cry, and he shattered. He thrust inside her deeply, withdrawing, entering, feeling the velvet and friction, until he could feel and say no more.
When he could next register thought, she was kissing his face and stroking his back.
“Now you know,” he said.
“Know what?”
“How I feel.” Surely after what they shared, she knew now.
“Tell me, please.”
He rubbed a finger over her lips, swollen from their lovemaking. “You know.”
“You can’t say it?”
“You know I can’t.” The warm glow left him, replaced by frustration. “You know how it is between us.”
“You know I’m no spy?”
“Yes.”
“Then we’ve made progress.”
He smiled. She was beyond beautiful, and she was his. It pleased him and scared him, but it would scare him a great deal more if he were forced to put it into words.
“Will you at least consider that Margaret had nothing to do with the attack on Penryton?”
“I cannot.”
“What would it take for you to believe her innocence?”
“She is too protected. It will never come out.”
“You refuse.”
Pre-dawn light started slowly stealing the darkness. He would need to leave soon, so he wouldn’t be seen leaving her chamber. “What would you have me do?”
“Meet with her.”
He thought of York’s amended plans. He’d meet with her, all right, if she decided to lead the royal troops to fight York. Luke would meet with her right here, and stop her from getting across this bridge and to London. “I might.”
Her eyes widened. “Might what?”
“Meet with her.”
“Forsooth? Oh, Luke, I’m sure ...”
Her words faded because hatred raged in his ears as he thought of his brothers, dying at Margaret’s bidding. This time, it would be her turn.
* * *
Later that morning, Joya finished her brief message and released the bird. Her mother would be angry with her for sending it late, but she honored her promise. She would have all day with Luke, another opportunity to get him to meet with Margaret.
He had encouraged her, agreeing to meet with the queen. She included that in her message home.
Degory was at table when she returned. He greeted her with enthusiasm and mentioned a visit to the village.
“I would like that, thank you,” she said. “And Luke, can he join us?”
“He left,” Degory said. “He said he’d be back for dinner.”
Degory held the front door for her as they left. “The streets are still muddied,” Deg said. “Better to ride and protect that lovely gown. ‘Tis a most unusual shade of red.”
Joya ran her fingers down the double princess seaming that defined the bodice. “Thank you. It always reminds me of red wine in the morning, that lighter color.”
They rode down the high street, past the church and green. The sun peeked through a break in the clouds, making the water sparkle as it splashed from the miller’s waterwheel. Pigs snorted enthusiastically as they snouted through their scraps, and a baby’s cries sounded from one of the marketplace stands.
“Redstone is an old Roman town,” Degory said. “A stone axe and some flints were found by what is now the mill, and Roman coins have been found on the riverbanks. Parts of the river are too narrow to handle ships, but it accommodates small ferries
and boats, and it’s close to Fosse Way. It’s a market town but has never received license for a fair.” He reined his horse off the road to a large brick building lined on the outside with large barrels.
A rich, sweet smell intensified as they neared the building, the aroma of malted barley and yeast. “Millith makes a great potage,” Deg said. “Step carefully by those barrels.”
Inside, more barrels lined the left wall, and long tables allowed a narrow aisle that ended with a table laden with pitchers and jugs. The air was moist and fragrant with boiling meat, grains and herbs.
A serving girl greeted Degory and brought them each an ale and trencher of meat. Joya pulled her knife from her girdle and speared a chunk of the meat. “Delicious.” The house was near empty, just another table occupied at the far end. “Have you had any success with Luke?”
“Nay. He’s entrenched. He’s always been that way.” Deg talked between bites. “It’s not just me, or you. He’s been that way since I’ve known him. You should have seen him and his brothers fight.”
“I did. Dreadful.” She cleaned her knife and returned it to her girdle, frustrated once more. “There must be something we can say that will convince him.”
“You don’t know Luke. He closes his ears and his mind. His brothers used to call him Turtle for the way he would draw in to himself, disappear just like a turtle.”
“I heard them call him that. Luke threatened to kill Christopher if he called him that again.”
Deg stared at the line of barrels. “There was one time. Luke was really young, and Philip and Chris were trying to get him to do something.” He studied the big beams overhead as if trying to pull down the memory. “I can’t remember what it was they were trying to force him to do, but Luke refused. They called him Turtle and spied a rotted pickle barrel. Luke was strong, but not strong enough to fight the two of them. They stuffed him into the barrel and slammed the lid shut. He still has a scar on his forehead from it.”
“Why didn’t you stop them?”
“I wasn’t there, or I would have. Humfrye told me. He thought it was amusing. They rolled him around in it for a while, and then just left him until someone discovered him.”
“He must have been terrified. He could have died.”
“Humfrye said there were spaces between a few of the staves for air.” Deg paused. “Please don’t mention it. I never told Luke I knew. I only mention it so you know how stubborn he is.”
A sense of powerless outrage flared, making her breathless. “How long?”
“What?”
“How long was he locked in the barrel?”
Degory ran his hand through his hair. “I should not have spoken.” He licked his lips. “I don’t know.”
Chapter 16
Luke entered the Redstone Changing House. After greeting the guards, he followed James Swift into the counting room.
A cat greeted them and jumped on a high shelf. His head had grown out of proportion to his body, mayhap one full size too large. He was all white with a touch of black on his ears and tail. He studied Luke with large eyes that seemed to glow.
“Your cat?” Luke asked.
James smiled. “Florin. My wife named him.”
Luke laughed. “After a coin. Clever, considering your course of life.”
“He’s worth at least two shillings, too,” James said, gesturing Luke past a large table. “He’s a good mouser, but he has strange eyes.”
Luke glanced again at the cat. His eyes glowed gold, almost pulsing and cutting right through Luke. He tried unsuccessfully to conceal the shiver that crept through his shoulders.
“Some people get unnerved and think he’s been taken by the devil, so we keep him inside most of times.”
James was born for a life inside, too, sheltered from nature’s challenges and aggressive men. Taller than Luke but half his weight, James was a grass blade of a man, with long fingers meant to handle thin coins and vellum notes. His dark brown hair had receded past his ears, taking his eyebrows along with it. He secured the door lock and pulled a panel aside to reveal a bank of safe cases where funds, notes and valuables were secured.
Luke settled at the table in the middle of the room. Privacy walls had been built on three sides of the table.
“I was sorry to learn about your arrest. Didn’t think I’d see you again.” James shook his head. “And your brothers—God rest their souls.” He pulled two sets of heavy chains free from the row of the cases, grunting as the chains slithered through the vertical door handles. He unlocked the cabinet in the middle of the top row, numbered 22. Releasing the covered drawer, he slid it onto the table. “I’ll secure the door. Ring the bell when you’re done.”
Once alone, Luke unlocked the lid and took stock of its contents. He had long ago transferred a large portion of his funds to an account here in Redstone. His bridge projects took him far from Penryton for long periods of time, and his meetings with York required frequent travel—and contributions.
‘Twas Luke’s good fortune that his steward,William, was so competent—Penryton thrived under his management—and that Luke had secured his resources here. Had he not, Margaret would have stolen all he owned, in addition to murdering his brothers. Having verified the total in coins, bars and notes, he removed all the contents and rang the bell.
James returned and Luke gave him a list of names and amounts to be drawn into notes. To James’ credit, his features remained still as a passion player’s mask as he reviewed the list of substantial numbers. He unstoppered the ink and began issuing them. “Thank you for helping us.” James kept his loyalty to York secret to protect his business—and his family, since both were located in Margaret’s stronghold area in the midlands. He advanced funds in a widely cast system that included areas as distant as Dublin and Calais. “I have a message for you.” He offered a sealed parchment.
Luke focused on the sealed missive. He accepted it, looking closer. The wax seal was not York’s, but a white “W.”
James discreetly returned to his notes, and Luke turned away and broke the seal. Meet me on the morrow in Abington, at St. John’s Hostel. We have your material. The Luck of the Irish is with us now. The Irish troops were on English soil. The plan was unfolding. Ice settled in Luke’s stomach. “Your material,” Wagg had written. He had procured the blasting gunpowder.
He heard a voice nearby. James. “… so wherever you’re going, Godspeed.”
It was James’ cautious way of asking where Luke was going.
“’Tis all unsettled now,” Luke said. Forsooth, he did not trust anyone with his personal business, and besides, avoiding details would protect both York and James. He would leave the Red Bridge, but he would return. To destroy it, along with the building in which he and James were now sitting.
James slashed his pen across the paper, scowling. “It would please me greatly to see Margaret’s head on London Bridge. Hers and that bastard son of hers.”
James was more than an enemy of the queen’s—he was a seething enemy. When Margaret was last in Gloucester, she had found herself short of horses and raided James’ son’s Wharton home of his horses and all his lifestock. For her cause, which his son was supposed to have been proud to have provided.
“I respect the king,” James said. “He’s pious and generous when he’s well. But as long as he’s alive, Margaret holds England in her fists. York should have killed him rather than taking him hostage.”
James spoke of the Battle of St. Albans, when the Lancaster troops were defeated and they left King Henry under a tree, so confused he didn’t know where he was. York spared the king, returned him to London where he placed him under constant and courteous guard. York served as the king’s Protector, much to Margaret’s fury, for several years, years in which York had righted England and restored order and safety.
“York must have been tempted but, had he killed the king, the boy you call a bastard would have been crowned.”
“Aye, another child king, this one owned
by Margaret. You’re right. Nothing would have changed.”
“Keep heart, James. York’s gaining ground with the people,” Luke said. All but stubborn holdouts like Joya’s family who were blinded by gratitude. “And with Parliament. A victory now will make it so.”
“One can only hope.”
“England is bleeding.” His brothers’ deaths—especially in a time of such division and tension—brought a deep, unmanageable pain. Would that they had solved their differences—and England had achieved peace—before they had been brutally slain. “But I believe we’re close to the end.” Luke secured his notes in a leather satchel. He would do what was needed to get there.
* * *
Joya worried at the dinner table, surrounded by Luke’s aunt and uncle, Degory, Hugh, and the older, scarred knight, Mace.
Luke had not returned for the evening meal. He had been seen at the money changing shop on the bridge in the morning, but not since. Hugh had found Luke’s chamber empty of any clothes or possessions. She looked to the door once again. “Where is he?”
“Worry not, my dear,” Luke’s Uncle Benjamin said, casting a glance at Emma and Degory. “We’ve all seen how he looks at you. He will not leave you here, I’m sure of it.”
“He knows my father is coming for me,” Joya said.
“Well, he won’t leave Hugh.”
Worry etched into Hugh’s eyes. “What if he does? What am I to do? Penryton is gone…”
Hugh’s uncle patted his nephew’s eggshell white hand. “You will not speak of this again. You will always have a home here.”
Joya twisted her girdle, playing with the buttons. “I think Luke has left.”
“For Ireland? They say York is there,” Degory said.
“I heard something about the king’s troops following Luke to Holyhead,” Joya said. “But he came here instead.”
“Holyhead?” Degory ran his hands through his hair. “That’s just a short ferry ride to Dublin. One of York’s castles, Denbigh, is not far from there.”