Crimson Secret

by Janet Lane

  “No.” He raised his sword hand, showing a disfiguring scar. “Injured my wrist before my fourteenth birthday.” He rubbed his ample stomach. “That’s why I got so wide.”

  “The older I get the more I collect there, too.” Tabor patted his stomach and faced Bonwyk. “Lady Tabor and I appreciate your hosting our daughter. She left without our permission, and we apologize for her having arrived uninvited.”

  “We are beholden to her for bringing Hugh to us. We spent dark days, wondering if he was safe. Besides, Emma and I have had the pleasure of Joya’s company. She is a winsome woman. She has enchanted our son and all of our household.”

  “Thank you, but it’s time she return to her home.”

  “We were hoping you might stay for a few days. Rest up before you turn around and travel again.”

  Benjamin’s invitation spoke to Tabor’s fifty-five-year-old back. It had never fully recovered from the battle of Blore Heath. “I would appreciate that, Benjamin, thank you.”

  “Excellent.”

  “The purpose of my visit is twofold,” Tabor said. “I came to bring Joya home, and I have also come with an important message for Lord Penry.” Margaret’s message included a full pardon and return of Penry’s lands, and a statement that whoever had killed Luke’s brothers had killed her troops and stolen their horses and livery.

  “I’m deeply sorry for the problems my nephew has caused your family, Lord Tabor. Luke should never have run off with your daughter and placed her in such danger. I think of my own daughter, and …” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “We have been trying to get Luke to abandon this alliance. My family has been steadfast to King Henry.” Benjamin leaned forward. “How is Henry these days?”

  It was a question Tabor heard many times. Since his marriage to Margaret, Henry suffered spells of mental unsoundness that lasted weeks, months—even years. He couldn’t speak, and would wander aimlessly.

  Margaret had become with child during one of those spells, setting tongues to wagging about whether Henry had truly fathered Prince Edward. Luke had rudely mentioned it at Coin Forest.

  He met Benjamin’s gaze. “Henry is clear-headed and hale. He suffered some illness at Blore Heath, but it was related to the cold, not his mind.”

  Benjamin absently twisted the chain at his girdle. “What do the physicians think cause him to become so—um—disoriented, but still be able to spring back and become alert?”

  Tabor shook his head. It was the root of England’s troubles. “Margaret detests those episodes, to be sure.” During his spells, Parliament would strip Margaret of her considerable power, and transfer the Seal and all royal authority to a Protector who would rule England in the king’s “absence.” The Duke of York had served as Protector, during which time Tabor had to admit England had recovered fairly well from the confusion the spells caused, for Henry absolutely could not rule during these times.

  “Our king is strong,” Tabor said. “He was devastated at the lives lost at Blore Heath, and furious with York and his followers. He has been active in battle strategies.”

  Benjamin settled in. “That’s welcome news. Problem is, when the king is well, Margaret can meddle, and she does, especially with tariffs. The London merchants are angry with her—no wonder Margaret moved the court to Coventry.”

  “So what of your nephew,” Tabor asked. “Where is Luke now?”

  “I don’t know. He recently traveled to Ireland, but he has shared nothing more.”

  “Could he be with family?”

  “There are just Emma and me and our children, Degory and Joan.”

  “Where is Joan?”

  “Devon, but Luke was never close with her. To be honest, he was never close with anyone but Degory. As children, he and Degory were great friends, but Luke has been distant for years. We were surprised when he came last week. “

  Tabor rubbed his temples. “He must be with York. Joya is fond—too fond—of Luke. I’m sorry for her, and I’m sorry for your family, Benjamin. I see nothing but tragedy ahead.”

  Chapter 17

  Joya met her father on the back deck of the bridge. The setting sun painted a glistening feather on the river, winking with the waves. He held her close, caressing her hair, silent for a time. “Good fortune has followed you, Ves’ Tacha. I have been sick with worry.”

  “Forgive me please, Father. I know—”

  “Remember the Ellington gliders you and Stephen played with when you were children?”

  She and her father shared a smile. “Of course.” For summer days on end, they had reached exciting speeds and taken many tumbles.

  Eventually other children found out about it, and the hill was filled with winnowing baskets and young ones crying out with joy. “The speed was so much fun,” she said. “Even the falling was fun, rolling down that big hill.”

  “I worried for you,” her father said. “You tumbled so wildly when you fell, I thought you might break an arm, or worse, your neck. But your mother only laughed.”

  Joya laughed. “She’s that way. All children should have a mother like mine.”

  “She was doting,” he said.

  “And happy. The other children envied us.”

  “Sharai is the most fascinating woman I have ever known,” he said, his expression tender. “‘Life is dangerous,’ she told me, ‘but it’s also fun. The grass is long, their bones are soft and young so they can play and heal and learn the difference between fun and dangerous.’”

  Joya realized he was sending a message. “You think I should not have come here.”

  “Your mother told me she gave you her blessing to do so. I wish she had not. You are precious to me. I would protect you from harm, always.”

  “You think I will break my leg.”

  He laughed softly, sadly. “If that’s all you’d suffer, I would be greatly relieved.” He took her hand. “This Penry affair.” He paused. “I don’t want you harmed, but this is not a children’s race down a grassy hill. It’s a royal matter. You have chosen a path that leads to imprisonment. Death. Do you not understand the danger you’re in because of him? Have you forgotten everything about Blore Heath?”

  It pained Joya to see the distress in his dark eyes. The years had faded his beautiful black hair to white at his temples and his face was lined with years, but he was still her father, and she had always wanted to please him.

  But all was different now. Her life had shifted, and she couldn’t return to that place. She still loved him—she wished against wish that she could please him, but Luke had become the center of her life.

  The change unsettled her, but somewhere deep within, it made sense.

  “No, I haven’t forgotten,” she said. “We almost lost everything at Blore Heath.” Stephen. Coin Forest. “We owe much to Margaret.”

  “We owe her everything. And you have freed an enemy who is set to destroy her.”

  “He is not evil,” she said.

  “I didn’t call him so. He’s industrious, from good stock and he’s brave. But he’s wrong.”

  She straightened, summoning the courage to say it. “And might you be wrong, too, Father?”

  His mouth fell and his eyes widened in sheer surprise. “Nay!”

  “I have not given up on him.”

  He tensed and pulled away from her. “God’s nails! Where do you think he is now? He’s with York. He’s gone. And so is your good name, but you show no signs of regret.”

  “I love him. Just as you loved Mother, but difficult as it was for you, it’s worse for me. Can you not see?”

  “I see that I have lost you, as we speak.”

  “You believe that?” Joya asked.

  “I have tried to be patient, but you have deceived me. You have dragged your family through the muck for this traitor. What are you thinking? Can you think at all?” He tapped his temple, his voice tight with anger.

  His words lodged deep, the cutting pain taking her breath.

  Her father waited, watching her. W
hen she said nothing, he released a strangled moan and quit her chamber.

  Joya extinguished the candle and fell on her bed. Her father had condemned her as a fool. Her heart had turned numb, a lump of mud in her chest. The man she had risked her life to save had left her. Was he in Coventry, fulfilling her deepest hope that he would ally with Margaret, or was he in parts unknown with York, where he would empower York to destroy everything her family held dear?

  Oh, if Camilla could see her now. And Pru, dear Pru, who put such stock in love. What good was it to lose the ability to think clearly, to sacrifice all, lose all? The ache in her chest grew so that she could scarce breathe, but still love for Luke pumped in her blood, leaked from her eyes in tears that turned cold with loss. She swept them away, angry at her failure to bring him back to Lancastrian loyalty.

  Mayhap her father was right. She had fallen into a hopeless spell with Luke and had lost all reason.

  She had promised her mother she would spend one day with Luke, after which she would return home willingly and forget Luke Bonwyk.

  Anger flamed in her belly, and dark thoughts burned in her head about York, York and his peculiar, W-shaped beard and unspeakable greed, dragging England into war so he could steal King Henry’s throne. She pounded the mattress. She had come so far with Luke, but hadn’t made a tittle’s bit of progress in her effort to save him.

  All she had been striving for slipped from her hands like so much sand.

  She thought of the apricot seeds, glistening with her mother’s secret oil. Guilt knifed its way through her chest. She had freed Luke, which had given York the power to take Luke from her.

  * * *

  Luke arrived in Redstone well after midnight. He had left Wagg’s guards five miles back in a camp sheltered in the forest. He had instructed them how to pack the canisters with gunpowder. To distract them he warned them of the severe injuries they would suffer if they handled the gunpowder recklessly. While they bent over the canisters, focused on compressing the explosive without losing a hand, Luke approached the overly abundant supply of gunpowder and canisters. He slipped two extra canisters and bags under the tent wall. Unnoticed, he quietly claimed them when he left. Now he walked the trail he used to take with Degory when they swam in the river. He hid the explosives in dense bushes. He had his own plans for them. After currying and stabling his horse, he climbed into the storage room window that Degory had left open for him.

  Upstairs, he paused in front of Joya’s room. Her closeness quickened his heart. No fire or candlelight shone, and disappointment stung him. Sobered that she could affect him thusly, he continued to Degory’s bedroom.

  Inside, Degory was snoring loudly. Luke undressed quickly and slid into his bed. His neck and back muscles ached from the strain of what he knew he had to do, of how, in a few days, he would destroy any feelings Joya held for him and shred the small fabric of family he still had left. The fur coverlet warmed him, and he quickly fell into an uneasy sleep.

  Luke’s dream placed him on the Red Bridge, standing beside York and his powerful allies—his brother-in-law, Richard Neville, 5th Earl of Salisbury, and the earl’s oldest son, Richard, 16th Earl of Warwick. Energized by their presence, Luke became reassured, more confident that the risks he was taking were worth it. These men represented England’s future.

  The river steamed in the early morning, a swirling white blanket that concealed the fast current that flowed beneath it.

  In the distance, a soft rumble grew to the noises of creaking leather, groaning wagons, and hooves thumping the earth.

  The Lancastrian forces had arrived, and Margaret herself, dragging her reluctant child prince in tow to see the massacre of her enemies.

  In the growing noise Luke’s heart pumped, bruising his chest with its urgency. He saw Joya in his mind’s eye, her dimpled smile that blinded him with love. After this morn, she would never speak to him again.

  “You who would take my throne,” King Henry cried, “Come forward. Let your insurgence be settled this day.”

  “We approach with love, my King,” York said, patient to the end. “I wish not to slay you, nor any of your faithful men. I merely wish to exercise my rightful claim to the throne.”

  “I am your king,” Henry replied. “Ambition clouds your sight.” Eyes wide and wary, Henry’s horse pranced sideways. “Show your fealty, and you will be pardoned.”

  The morning grew still as men from both sides strained to hear.

  York took a deep breath. “I will not stand down.” He glanced at Luke, as if for reassurance, and led his horse forward.

  Then you will die,” Henry ordered his trumpeters to sound the call to battle. “Advance!”

  Pulling a still-burning torch from its holder, Luke raised it, waving it three times, down, the signal to ignite the explosives.

  The bridge called to him with dear memories of a carefree youth. Luke saw the shops and the swings and the river below it. Luke slipped into the long-ago pickle barrel, its darkness a bitter relief. He would be alone again, but he would do honor to the oath that offered the most hope, the most good to his beloved England.

  Henry charged.

  Large booms sounded from below the bridge. It shook the houses and dislodged the stones that secured the piers. The bridge broke just south of the halfway point, collapsing just beyond the center support beams. Men and horses stumbled on the collapsing bridge and followed the falling stone in a ghastly shower. Uncle Benjamin’s house shook. The old lamppost collapsed.

  Luke woke from his dream. He heard Degory’s uneven snoring, saw the soft moonlight from the window, and shuddered. Soon he would face the devastation.

  * * *

  The next morning, Joya tucked her hair under her veil, thankful she had dressed warmly in her travel suit. Grey clouds cluttered the sky like bundles of dirty sheets, threatening rain. She would work quickly.

  Her flesh creeping from the horror of her dreams, Joya had renewed her vow to learn more about Luke. When asked about his childhood at breakfast, his Aunt Emma had talked of Luke’s industry, reliability and loyalty. She hadn’t mentioned a single shadow from his past, though she must have known about the brothers’ cruel treatment of Luke, especially the pickle barrel.

  Joya finally accepted that Luke must surely be Emma’s favorite nephew, and turned to other sources to learn more. She approached the church, a modest structure at the north end of the bridge. She would gain a seed of news on this grey morning, no matter how small, that would help her understand him, maybe lead her to him.

  The vicar had propped the heavy door open, either in welcome or need of fresh air. Joya entered. A few benches were stacked behind the rood screen, and two stained glass windows poured weak patches of blue and gold onto the rushes. It appeared the church could accommodate only two or three dozen people. The large church Joya had seen in the village must host the majority of the townfolk and travelers.

  “Good morn.” The vicar was bald, older than her father by ten years, she guessed, an ox of a man, still hale with a thick neck and forearms that bulged out of his black habit.

  Joya introduced herself and explained that she was a guest of the mayor.

  “Lord Tabor’s daughter, I heard. Gypsy.”

  Joya filtered his comment, something she always did when people met her and noticed her darker skin. The vicar said it with an admiring eye, so she felt no hesitancy. “Yes. My mother is Sharai, the Lady Tabor.” She reminded him that regardless of skin color and growing hostilities toward Gypsies in England, her veins ran with noble blood.

  His eyes were warm, suggesting he held no such preconceived notions, and they sat near the stained glass. They visited about Coin Forest and Somerset, and he said he had met Father Bernard many years ago.

  “He wed my parents,” Joya said, remembering the generous priest.

  “He was beloved and esteemed,” the vicar said, “May he rest in peace.”

  She nodded.

  “Benjamin tells me you have been most kind
to Lord Penry,” the vicar said. Brought his brother here.”

  “Yes. What happened to his brothers was most heinous. These are dark days.”

  “I pray for our king’s health and recovery,” the vicar said.

  “As do I.” Joya paused. “I understand Lord Penry spent most summers here during his youth. Have you had opportunity, over the years, to get to know him?”

  “His family spent many summers here. The boys loved playing on the bridge—swinging, swimming, and—to Emma’s consternation, jumping off the bridge when she didn’t catch them in time.”

  “Heavens. The bridge is so tall.”

  “Aye. Little Luke was almost as big a daredevil as Degory. They were like two straws in a haystack.” He laughed softly. “They used to sit in the aisle seats during services and roll marbles back and forth to each other. I never did tell him I could hear the marbles rolling, though they tried to be so quiet.”

  Little Luke sounded engaging, very much like the man with whom she had raced boats.

  The rector sighed. “Something happened to him. Sometime when he was around ten or so, he changed. Oh, he and Degory were still friends, but it was as if he was an amusing rascal one summer, and a wizened, old man the next. It was hard for him to lose his father and older brother like that.”

  Degory had not mentioned that. “How did it happen?”

  “Fire. Haystacks, piled too green. It spread to the tithe barn. They tried to put it out, but the upper loft collapsed on them. The younger ones—Christopher and Humfrye and Luke, they got away in time. Luke was always more tender than the other brothers—like a spring shoot.”

  “Have you seen Luke during this visit?” Joya asked. “He left without a word, and I’m worried for him. He has unfinished business with the queen and I was hoping …” She stopped, wondering how much she could say. Monks and priests loved to gossip as much as alehouse wives.