Crimson Secret

by Janet Lane

  “Egad.” Mace scratched one of the scars on his neck. “Margaret’s not been able to take Denbigh, but York’s forces there are near depleted. Could that be part of Luke’s plan? Bring reinforcements and reclaim the castle?”

  “Maybe York is on his way to England. Easy to land in Wales.” Uncle Benjamin said. “That would put York close to us.” He cast his eyes down and sucked in his lower lip.

  “Let’s not fret over what may or may not be. Rumors are flying,” Emma said. “I heard York was sailing to Calais. He can’t be two places at once.”

  “We can hope Luke is going to Coventry,” Joya said. “It’s just fifty miles north. He said he would consider seeing Margaret.”

  “When pigs fly,” Degory said.

  “You said you talked with him,” Uncle Benjamin said.

  “I did,” Degory said. “Several times. At the most, he was polite. At the least, he tried to draw me to York’s side.”

  Joya forced one more bite of roast. It clogged her throat like sawdust, and she could eat no more. They had been guessing for too long, and it brought them no closer to understanding, or knowing of Luke’s whereabouts. “Pleased excuse me.” She rose from the table. “Is it safe on the deck at this hour? I would like to take a walk.”

  Deg bolted to standing. “I will escort you, if you’d like.”

  Outside, the aroma of dinners in the other houses on the bridge mingled. A touch of summer warmth softened the air. “I just realized it’s June,” she said. “Wasn’t it just May Day?”

  “Much has happened. It’s June sixth,” Degory said. He inhaled deeply. “It smells like it.” He paused as they entered the main deck of the bridge and looked both ways. “Which way, north, or south?”

  Joya followed his gaze. The bridge was long, over a hundred feet, she supposed, and wide to accommodate the businesses in addition to bridge traffic. Uncle Benjamin’s home was situated closer to the north end of the bridge. “Let’s walk south.”

  “So.” Deg righted a broom by the hitching post in front of the haberdasher. “Do you really think Luke will see Margaret?”

  Joya sighed, releasing some of the weight from her shoulders. It was comforting to worry with one of Luke’s family members, knowing they cared deeply for him, also. “He may have said it to end our debate.”

  She knew she mustn’t be too hopeful that he would meet with her. Degory’s dark tale of the pickle barrel was shocking. She, too, had seen Luke’s strong spirit. That his brothers couldn’t have broken it was no surprise. That they had tortured him so in trying to do so was shameful.

  “I’m sorry I told you. About the pickle barrel.”

  “I’m glad you did. It explains some things for me, about Luke and his brothers.” She thought for a moment. “Deg?”

  “What?”

  “Would you please share with me what you learn about Luke? If you discover his whereabouts or plans, would you consider—”

  “Telling you?” He nodded. “When he comes back—”

  “What if he doesn’t?”

  “Or when we find him,” Deg continued, “We must work together to not let him slip away again. I don’t think he’s seeing Margaret. I do think he’s seeing York and his allies. If he knows he can’t escape without our following him, he won’t lead us to York.”

  “If I could just have some time with him. He has been … receptive to me lately. If I could convince him—”

  “Oh, I think you could, Joya. I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”

  “Well …” Her face heated, and she dropped her gaze.

  “All right,” Deg said. “We have a pact. We’ll alert each other when he next tries to slip off in the night, and we’ll make double our efforts to bring him back to the Bonwyk flock. And I’ll help you find some time with him when he returns.”

  * * *

  Luke rode out of the forest and into Rewley, an isolated abbey thirty miles from Redstone. Though it was almost dark, he could have found the hostel by the noise alone. Men singing slurred words, the smell of roasting meats and pigeons. The stables were busy with the currying and stalling of new arrivals. Maneuvering past the horses and wagons, he found a monk who sent him to Wagg’s room.

  Luke noted the fine linens and damask cover on Wagg’s bed. He preferred comfort over coin, obviously. Luke announced himself with the guard at the door. Inside, Wagg sat with Lord Harmon. They offered him a flagon of wine and a stool.

  “Godspeed, Lord Penry.” Wagg slurred his words, deep in his cups.

  “Godspeed.” They toasted, and Luke started planning his exit. He had no interest in aimless, befuddled chatter. “Celebrating, gentlemen?”

  “It’s been a devil of a day,” Wagg said. “My horse stepped into a hole. Couldn’t run, blast the luck. Had to leave him in Winchester for stall rest.”

  “Unfortunate,” Luke said. “Did you get another?”

  “Aye, but his gait is awkward. My neck’s plaguing me.” He rubbed it and took another drink of wine.

  “Sit with us, Penry, don’t go skulking off by yourself again.” Wagg rose, unsteady, and banged on the door. “Murphy. Penry here looks hungry. Bring him a rack of ribs.”

  Wagg turned to Luke and gestured again to the empty stool. “Was your trip without incident? Were you followed?”

  With lack of a graceful excuse to leave, Luke seated himself. “I joined a group of bowyers and armorers traveling this way. No one was overly interested in me,” Luke said. With every mile, doubts about the Red Bridge plan had haunted him. Why had York’s plans changed so drastically? And not for the better. It would be more prudent to supplement the Irish troops with men from Calais.

  Luke had sent word to York but received only a terse answer: “Follow Wagg’s direction. He speaks for me while I’m here.”

  “’Tis good you arrived this eve,” Wagg said. “We have started moving the troops. Been making fifteen miles a day, which means they’ll reach Redstone by Saturday. And see.” He pointed to a dozen canvas bags, each big enough to hold four geese. “We have your gunpowder.” Wagg’s eyes narrowed. “You seem troubled.”

  Luke glanced briefly at the gunpowder bags, a reminder of his grim, new project. Wagg had bought enough gunpowder to take down three bridges. Waste of funds, but it might turn out to be a useful surplus. “I’m concerned about numbers.” Luke lowered his voice. “What good are a thousand Irishmen when facing over ten thousand Lancastrian troops?”

  Wagg laughed softly. “’Tis good you’re not commanding an army, Penry. You must have faith and be bold. We have recruited another thousand Englishmen who will help us defeat the Lancasters. We’ll catch them unaware. The bridge is our secret weapon.”

  Luke considered that. “Are the English troops mustered?”

  “Mustered and moving. They will rendezvous with us from the east,” Wagg said.

  “But it’s been several days. What if Margaret’s plans have changed again?”

  “They haven’t,” Wagg said.

  “They brought ten thousand to Blore Heath. Will they have that many at the Red Bridge?”

  Wagg leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Think you we rely on one report? We have an entire family of spies in Coventry, and two members of Henry’s own court report to us. Margaret continues with her preparations to march the southerly route that will take her to Redstone.”

  Wagg held up his hand. “I know your next question. How do we know this for sure? Because the royal army has been gathering provisions in large proportions, large enough to feed thousands, not hundreds. Several hundred pack horses are being held off the Watling route near High Cross. Entire storehouses of grain and hay have been procured, and pack wagons are being built.” He sat up, chin raised. “We are informed, and strategy is more important than numbers – that was proven in Blore Heath, at Ludford, and at that French battle…” Wagg paused, a mischievous smile moving those big ears of his, “…what was it again, Harmon?”

  Harmon laughed. “I believe it was Agincourt.”<
br />
  “Ah, yes!” Wagg grinned. “The French had three times the number of England’s troops, yet it was France’s biggest defeat.”

  Their laughter needled Luke. Yes, Agincourt was England’s biggest victory in the war against France, but each battle had its own peculiarities. He ticked off points with his fingers. “The French had heavy armor. They fell from exhaustion wearing it in the heavy muds. We had longbow archers. And the French were overly confident. I don’t want us to repeat that mistake.”

  Wagg’s features darkened. “At this battle, we’ll have the element of surprise, and we’ll have your bridge. Once the king is dead, they could have twenty thousand men and it won’t do them any good. Their cause will be dead, too.”

  “Not quite.” Luke placed his half-consumed wine on the table, concerned about Wagg’s line of thinking. “Kill the king, and they’ll still defend his son. Prince Edward will be the new king, and Margaret will win.”

  Lord Harmon waved his hand, joining the discussion. “But our plan—Simon Wagg’s plan,” he corrected with a fawning bow to Wagg, “includes the queen and the prince. With all of them gone, York’s way will be clear.”

  Luke leaned forward. “It’s not York’s plan?”

  “Of course it’s York’s plan,” Wagg said, casting a sharp glance at Harmon. “And we all see the opportunities in it, that’s all Harmon is saying.”

  “So you’ll have to face King Henry in person,” Luke said. That would risk another military humiliation like Ludford Bridge, when Andrew Trollope, captain of 600 Calais troops, quailed at seeing the king leading his army and switched loyalties after the king offered pardon.

  “We have secured Lords Ryland and Barlow, two experienced captains,” Wagg said, finishing his flask. “They are fine strategists, and you, Lord Penry, need only take care of the bridge for us. We will do the rest.” He reached in his satchel and handed Luke a small, folded parchment. “A message from York, for you.”

  Luke unfolded it and read. Lord Penry, great sympathy for your family. Vengeance will be yours soon. Godspeed you to the bridge. Luke looked up. “York will be at the bridge?”

  Wagg’s smile curved with the very confidence Luke feared, and he held his fingers up, indicating two inches. “We’re this close. The end of the wars. A Plantagenet on the throne. King Richard. But first.” He stood, pulled a parchment from a stack of them by the table, and rolled it out. “The Red Bridge. Let’s go through it one last time.”

  Luke’s sketch of the bridge filled the table. “The Lancasters will arrive at the bridge from the north,” Wagg said. “They’ll see or smell the campfires. Scouts will advance and report their estimate of how many troops. They’ll want to take the Watling to St.Alban’s—it’s a better road, faster travel. But we’ll block them.”

  Wagg traced the Redstone River. “It’s too wide, too deep to offer any fording. And Margaret will be flush with the victory at Ludford Bridge, chomping at the bit to add another victory. She won’t back down.”

  Margaret traveled with the armies she raised, staying close enough during battle to watch, as she had done at Blore Heath.

  Wagg continued, outlining the formation of the Irish troops on the south end of the bridge.

  “We’ll parley. Henry will offer pardon, but it will be futile. The royal banners will be flying, red will be draped on the horses and the knights and archers and footmen, and they will begin their march onto the bridge. You’ll be in a boat below where you’ll light the fuses Luke. When the king reaches the height of the second arch…” Wagg clapped his hands. “Boom!” He pointed to the support structure of the bridge, the stone and timber piers between the first and second arch. “Based on your sketches and information, erosion from the river’s current during the flood has weakened this pier the most. The explosions will compromise the piers, crack the timbers and boom! Here and here, and the entire first third of the bridge will fall. The king’s cavalry shall fall with it.” Wagg’s eyes focused past Luke, lost in his own visions.

  “If any troops make it across the bridge before then, Lords Ryland and Barlow’s units will cut them down. Once the bridge collapses, most of the troops will be bottle-necked at the north end of the bridge. Margaret is blood-thirsty. She likes to watch, so she’ll be there. We will kill her, and her bastard son.”

  Luke’s shoulders tensed. “You won’t get near them.” Luke said. “The minute the bridge collapses, the royal guards will be on them like bees, protecting them. Besides that, the bridge will be down.”

  Wagg pointed. “You take care of the bridge, and we’ll take care of the rest. Mark my words. There will be no royalty but York left standing.”

  He tossed the map back on the table. “You need to get back to Redstone. I’m sending a couple of guards with you. They’ll help you build the explosives and prepare the bridge. And you’ll need to convince your family that you’ve abandoned York.”

  “They know nothing of the plan.”

  “Of course they do. The plans are how you got arrested in the first place. Good they were in code.”

  “They know neither when nor where.”

  “If you return after this trip, they will wonder. Tell the lovely Joya Ellington that she has finally convinced you. Tell them it’s cost you too much already, losing your brothers, your lands. Beseech Margaret to forgive you, and send her a message.”

  Luke met Wagg’s gaze. He had not mentioned Joya. “How did you know Joya was in Redstone?”

  Alarm widened Wagg’s eyes for a moment, replaced with an expression of proud annoyance. “We have a good network, Penry. Nothing escapes us.”

  “I will not lie.”

  Wagg studied him, eyes narrowed. “Which is precisely why you must. You’ve dedicated yourself to His Grace, the third Duke of York.” He paused. “Our next king. You have sacrificed your lands and your brothers. Make it worthwhile. Convince Tabor, your uncle, all those loyal to Margaret. It’s how this plan will work.”

  Luke struggled with the urge to strike Wagg, to knock the self-important smirk off his face. What Luke wanted was to see York. What he needed was reassurance that this was the best plan, that Salisbury was convinced it was the right plan. Instead, Wagg sat before him, smug, drunk and unconvincing.

  “So, Lord Penry, you leave for the bridge at first light. And we’ll be two days behind you. Godspeed.”

  Wagg and Harmon watched Luke leave.

  “He’s reluctant. There’s much that can go wrong,” Harmon said. “This plan depends too much on one man, and he doesn’t look reliable.”

  “He’s such an annoyance, don’t you think I would tap another man if I could? Penry knows the cursed bridge and, with his family he can move about on it—and under it—with no suspicion. But mind you I leave naught to chance,” Wagg said. “Penry will get one last ‘York’ message from our man in Ireland. If that doesn’t calm him, the guards will control the gunpowder at all times. If he fails to do his duty once the canisters are fashioned, I’ve ordered the guards to light the explosives.”

  “And what if Penry stops them?”

  “If it comes to that, they are to kill Penry. He will not stand in our way.”

  * * *

  From the sidelines in a hurling field in Kilkenny, sixty miles south of Dublin, the Third Duke of York jumped up from his seat. He cheered, adding his voice to the hundreds watching as his son, Edmund, ran to the grounded ball. He executed a fluid roll lift. His heir raced down the field, his young, muscular legs eating up the distance to the goal, expertly controlling the ball. He worked his way through the crowded middle of the field. He feigned to drive it home. He zagged to the right and swung the hookie stick hard, hurling the slioter toward the goal. The goalee dove desperately to block it and failed, and the white ball sailed home for the winning score.

  York’s heart swelled with pride. His son excelled at hurling.

  The crowd roared, and the players threw themselves onto one another. Kilkenny Blue had won.

  He was glad they had
traveled south for the hurling contests. They had proven to be a pleasant diversion from the tensions in Dublin.

  A man worked his way through the crowd, a messenger, his leather pack visible. His brown hair stuck to the sweat on his brow. “Your Grace, a message.” The young man fumbled the metal hook free from the leather and produced a vellum envelope.

  York examined the seal. The abbot from Waterford.

  Carrier message arrived from Christchurch yesterday. Wagg reports spies in the channel. Moving Irish troops inland fifty miles to avoid detection. Next report from Ludgershall.

  Wagg’s enthusiasm seemed to pop from between the lines of the message. His young commander resembled an overly eager hunting dog.

  Wagg more than made up for that failing with his talents, though. He had proven to be a gifted tactician, and relocating the troops was one of many of his good ideas. If Margaret discovered the Irish, it would be nigh impossible to sail in to Sandwich and join forces with his son and Warwick to complete their mission. They had all been attainted, their holdings and assets seized by the crown. This was the last chance to capture the throne. He had chosen the right man for the Christchurch leg of the plan.

  Smiling to himself, he rose to congratulate his son for his victory.

  * * *

  Lord Tabor sat with Benjamin Bonwyk in his solar. He had arrived midday, earlier than anticipated. Five days on the road and he had finally arrived at Redstone with Peter, Fritts and Martin. Unfortunately, Penry had left before Tabor’s arrival.

  Joya was with Benjamin’s son, Degory, shopping in the village.

  Tabor studied Benjamin. He was around Tabor’s age, softened in the middle with thinning, grey hair that still showed remnants of brown, more Christopher’s coloring than Lord Penry’s. A second born son, Benjamin had done well for himself as a merchant voted mayor.

  Swords of many lengths and widths hung in the room, along with a tapestry of battle. “Did you serve at Ludford?” Margaret and King Henry trounced York and his followers there last autumn.