Crimson Secret

by Janet Lane

  Degory raced his horse up to meet them. “Where in God’s name have you been?”

  “Waiting to see you at the inn. Where’s Joya?”

  “She’s in the boathouse with Aunt Emma.”

  “Why did you leave Marston? They were safe there.”

  “You know Joya. We could follow her or try to find her later after she sneaked out the minute we closed our eyes. I don't know that I could stay either," Deg added. "It's Redstone. I couldn't abandon my home.”

  “God’s nails.” It confounded everything, but Luke understood the compulsion to protect one’s home.

  “The king is here. Margaret, and the prince,” Deg said. “Every soul from Coventry seems to be here. Tabor rode his men north to see how many troops. He says seven, eight thousand.”

  The Irish would be outnumbered more than four to one, precisely what Luke had feared. “York? Is York here?”

  “I haven't seen him.”

  Luke absorbed that. Joya’s words echoed, “Wagg is not to be trusted.”

  “Wagg is here with a small army of Englishmen,” Deg said. “A handful of noblemen and several hundred Irish. They’re all camped on the south side. No livery—all peasants or mercenaries. Methinks they’ll parley soon.” Degory’s eyes darted. Tension seemed to pulse from his body. “And what will you do here, Luke?”

  Luke ignored him. He was consumed with one thought: James. “I have an errand to do. Hugh, go with Degory to the boathouse. I’ll be there shortly.”

  Luke raced his horse to the bridge and rode onto the deck to the changing house. It was boarded up, but Luke saw movement on the front step, something black and white with a huge head.

  Florin sat, meowing to get in. Foolish cat. With those gleaming gold eyes, someone would get spooked and kill him. Luke scooped him up. No James meant no news of York, but he could get Florin to safety.

  He approached his uncle’s house. Lights shone in every window. From the rooftop and from the ladder swing’s support pole, several red banners furled in the light breeze, making it clear to all that Lancastrian supporters would protect the north side of the bridge. York’s forces would think twice before attacking his uncle’s house.

  Lord Tabor rushed out with Uncle Ben. “Tell us what to expect, son,” his uncle said.

  “Bloodshed,” Luke said. “Why did you not heed my warnings earlier, when I took you to Marston? Why did you come back?”

  “Your uncle will fight for our queen,” Lord Tabor said, a look of sheer disgust in his eyes. “Something you should have decided to do.” Tabor turned. “You’re a traitor. Get out of my sight.”

  His uncle regarded him at a distance, his face tight with pain and disappointment.

  It was too much for Luke. He backed away and hurried to the boathouse. The sea of red soldiers ended about twenty yards before the bridge. The men watched him, the space between them crackling with apprehension.

  Guards lined the city walls and filled the towers at the village north of the bridge. In the weak light at sunrise, lights shone in every window of the guardhouse.

  The cold air held the smoke of distant fires and an ominous silence.

  The usher Michael and three knights guarded the boathouse entrance. He glared at Luke, his eyes narrowed with the look of a man who had been told a bad secret. “Luke.” All of the usual affection in his voice had been stripped, replaced with a tone of dismissal.

  Inside, the boats normally housed there had been removed and benches brought in to accommodate villagers seeking safety from the post-battle pillage. Those who could find no shelter at the church had come here, filling the small boathouse to the walls.

  A fire burned near the window with a makeshift chimney that channeled most of the smoke outside. The residue tainted the air, causing some to cough. Joya sat with Emma and other women in the front row. She glared at him.

  “Florin,” Emma said. “I’ll take him.” She cooed to the cat, and he jumped out of Luke’s arms and into his aunt’s lap.

  A group of young children huddled on the floor in the corner. His aunt followed Luke’s gaze. “They had no other safe place to take them,” his aunt said. “All the fields are filled with soldiers.”

  “Joya, I would have a word with you,” Luke said.

  She raised her chin. “For what purpose?”

  “Please.” He moved toward the door.

  She rose and strode past him.

  Outside, he reached for her hand, and she put both of her hands behind her back. “You lied to me.”

  “I meant my vow to you.”

  Her eyes sparked, dark and dangerous. Her fists were clenched, her mouth tense. “Oh, yes, your vow was earnest. And all this,” she stabbed the air and swept her hand at the bridge, “is merely a parade honoring your fealty to the queen.”

  “You think I could stop this? You think I’m more influential than King Henry and the Duke of York?”

  “I think you could have prevented this, had you lived up to your vow. You’re so damned sure of York’s right to rule. How many must die to please you?”

  “Surely you don’t think I want war!”

  “Tell me you have not met with York or his men.”

  “And are you any better, Joya Ellingham? You and your favored queen. Do you care how many die supporting her? How many must die to please you?”

  She gasped. “Our time is done.” She veered clear of him as if he had grown blisters of plague, and strode back to the boathouse.

  Wagg was waiting for Luke at the south end of the bridge. Luke threaded his way through the crowds. People, people everywhere. The dreaded heat crept up his neck, into his scalp, a malady from which he’d suffered all his life in the presence of large groups of people. The smell reminded him of the hoards in London, but worse.

  Wagg’s saggy eyes were sharp today, watching Luke with the same intensity as Luke was studying him.

  “Where’s York?” Luke searched the bridge and nearby fields for the tall Richard, Third Earl of York with his proud posture, blond hair and split-trimmed beard.

  “He’s been delayed.”

  “I’ve been told he’s still in Ireland.”

  Wagg’s eyes narrowed. “You doubt my word?”

  “Is he in Ireland?” Luke repeated.

  “I swear on my first born son’s life, he is on his way.”

  Luke considered. He had no concrete evidence, only James's claim, and James may not have the connections he thought he did. “Did you hire assassins to kill my brothers?”

  Wagg widened his eyes. “Where do you get these thoughts? We are united for York's cause. We help each other. Whatever would I gain from killing off your family?”

  Luke considered the question, but he was exhausted from travel, emotionally spent from being condemned by all the people he held dear.

  Wagg put his hands on his hips. “Where have you been?”

  “Protecting my family.”

  Wagg gestured at Luke’s bandaged wrist. “What happened?”

  “Someone underestimated me.”

  Wagg raised a brow. “Does he still breathe?”

  “With more difficulty now. Where, specifically, is York? Is he on Irish soil or English?”

  “He’s sailing. He’s on his way. It’s not easy for him to travel and still avoid capture.”

  “You’ve forced me to lie to my family,” Luke said. “What are you not telling me?”

  Wagg’s nostrils flared, and his face darkened. “Your suspicions paralyze you. Think not that York is trying to join us? Think! And yes. War is ugly business.” He pointed to the Irish troops behind them. “You think those men don’t have conflicts, too?” He pointed to the north side of the bridge, where royal troops covered the steep hill, thousands of them behind them, and to each side of them, a sea of red pendants and royal livery.

  “They’re no different from you, Luke. You’re brooding because you believe in York, but your family supports the king. Those troops support the king, but they have brothers, cousin
s, friends, sons, even fathers who support York. Thanks to Margaret, England is torn down the middle. You’re not the only one suffering in this war, Penry.” Wagg glared at him. “But you are the only one I’m relying on right now, this morning.” His speech appeared to have exhausted him and he gasped. “Are you ready?”

  “Yes,” Luke said. “I am ready.”

  “I need your assurance. I’m risking my life with this, too. Do you think I killed your family?”

  “No.”

  “Can I count on you? On this day?”

  No, you cannot. “Yes.”

  Hugh and Deg joined Luke on the bridge.

  Hugh looked from one side of the bridge to the other and lowered his voice. “The king’s army outnumbers them. How in Hades does Wagg think he can win?”

  Aware of Wagg’s proximity, Luke replied, slightly louder, “He must have a secret weapon.”

  A sobered Lord Harmon took in the size of the royal army and limped to the bridge. He and Wagg shared a lengthy, whispered conversation.

  At the Lancastrian end of the bridge, people stirred and horses whinnied.

  Luke’s neck tingled. He touched his brother’s arm and spoke with urgency. “Hugh, it’s time for you to go to the boathouse.”

  The muscle at his brother’s jaw worked, pulsing. “I must needs stand with my brother.”

  “I’m appreciative, but you’ll be safe there.”

  Hugh shook off Luke’s hand and stepped away. “I am a Bonwyk.”

  The sky seemed to press Luke to the ground, and he tasted death in the air, a bitter, sour taste of finality. That his brother also did was clear in his eyes. Luke struggled with a stinging in the back of his eyes. “I am proud to have you as my brother. Now go to the boathouse.”

  “I will go to my death as Hugh, and never by another name.”

  “Go to the boathouse,” Luke repeated.

  The hurt shone in his brother’s eyes for a moment, quickly replaced with a new resolve. “I will die with honor, not cowering in the shade.”

  Luke took a step toward Hugh, prepared to drag him to safety if need be.

  Wagg stepped between them, blocking Luke. “Yes.” He gave Luke a penetrating stare. “Your brother will stand with honor. Next to me.” Wagg’s eyes flashed with warning.

  He's threatening me. And Hugh. Outrage flushed Luke’s veins, but he had no time to address it.

  The mass of soldiers and horses shifted, forming three distinct companies to the north. War had come calling, and time, with its chance to bid farewell, had run out. He looked past Wagg and gave Hugh a steady gaze, one that he hoped told of his concern and of their bond. “Godspeed, brother.”

  “Godspeed,” Hugh answered, his gaze just as intense and determined.

  Trumpets sounded. The sun broke free, spilling gold down the center of the river. The sea of cavalry and archers parted, and one man rode forward. King Henry sat, tall and determined on his steed, both of them in full armor, resplendent in polished steel. He held his shield, bright with rampant lions and fleur de lis. Trumpets sounded again and a second horse and rider appeared, this one shorter, more diminutive.

  Queen Margaret. Honey brown curls covered her head, contained with gold netting. Below a jeweled gold crown, a single suspended pearl trembled above her eyes. She regarded the troops at the other side of the bridge, her gaze turning to Wagg, and Luke. Her eyes dominated her delicate, round face, her nose long and thin, her mouth small, forming a cupid’s bow. Her expression regal, imperious. She claimed the moment with her presence, and the force of her spirit touched all around her.

  Murmers grew to a loud pitch on the south side of the bridge. Once she had been recognized, guards spilled in on both sides to protect her.

  Another round of trumpets sounded, and a third rider appeared.

  An audible gasp of hundreds arose from the south.

  “The Prince!” someone said.

  “Prince Edward!” another exclaimed.

  The news traveled to the large companies in the south fields.

  The prince, only twelve years old, sat stiff in the saddle, chin high, eyes straight ahead. He had gained the height of manhood but not the meat, obvious even with his full set of armor.

  The murmurs grew to a soft roar through the Irish troops.

  More guards slipped in to protect the prince, and they escorted him and the queen off the bridge.

  Wagg grabbed Lord Harmon's arm. “The stars are with us.” He slapped Luke’s arm repeatedly. “All three here. Exactly as I had predicted.”

  “Where is the Duke of York?” King Henry asked.

  Wagg mounted his horse and drew him to the bridge deck. “York is not here, Your Majesty. I am Simon Wagg, Lord Carston, in the Duke’s stead.”

  Lord Harmon led his horse up to the deck, next to Wagg. "And I am Joseph Bartholemew, Lord Harmon, and I stand with Lord Carston."

  “Bearing arms against your king?” Margaret asked.

  “You are committing high treason, both of you,” the king said. "You will be drawn, quartered and beheaded. Your heads will be posted in London for all to see. Your lands are hereby withdrawn, your heirs bereft if you fail to let me pass and beg my pardon.” Henry signaled his knights.

  They passed the king and entered the bridge, advancing three feet.

  “I do this for England, Your Majesty. I am under York’s command, not yours,” Wagg said. Sweat slithered down his jaw, but he did not wipe it away. He sat even taller in his saddle. “You may not pass.” He signaled the Irish troops forward.

  King Henry advanced two more feet and ordered his knights to close in behind him.

  Luke’s muscles tightened to the point that breathing was difficult. All fell silent, waiting to see if Wagg would respond.

  Wagg looked to Luke and wiped sweat that had dripped in his eyes.

  “These are trying times,” King Henry said.

  Luke swallowed an ounce of awe, instilled since childhood for the royal family. The king was a good man, devout and generous. Honest and true-intentioned. His only flaws were his infirmity and his absolute trust in Margaret of Anjou.

  There was an elegance to him, a dignity that emanated from the man. The massive crowds fell silent, listening.

  “In this time of uncertainty,” Henry continued, “Many slanders are committed. Truth is blurred, becoming hard to determine, and loyalties are strained.

  "Listen closely. What I say will affect not only your lives today, but your family’s lives and your lands, throughout many generations.”

  Henry’s horse danced, and he settled it. “Stand down from this shameful position of treason. Surrender your arms. Pledge your loyalty to the true crown of England. Do this and I will pardon you. Now. This day. This hour. Pledge to me and save yourselves.”

  Hoofbeats sounded from behind Luke. A rider passed, his horse large, a charger. Luke looked up as he passed.

  The bald-cut killer. Shock clarified Luke’s vision. His brothers’ murderer, a look of humility on his face, his shoulders rounded in servility and submission.

  “Sorry, my lord,” the killer said clearly to Wagg as he passed.

  He approached the knights and surrendered his sword, and he was allowed to approach the king.

  The killer dismounted and dropped to his knee. “I am Winton Hawke, Lord Clavell, Your Majesty.”

  The king peered at him. “Lord Clavell is over forty years old.”

  “I am his son. My father was killed on the battlefield at Blore Heath. I’m sure you will recall his valor.”

  Son? Luke shook his head. Rubbish. A nobleman didn’t murder his fellow countrymen for hire. The killer probably murdered Lord Clavell.

  The king looked to his nearest commander, who merely shrugged his shoulders. The king paused and looked up. “Of course. He was a good man.”

  “ I have four hundred soldiers in my company,” the so-declared Clavell continued. “I have ordered them to withdraw. We were deceived. Tricks and threats were used to get us to turn
against you.”

  “Liar!” Wagg shouted. The Irish troops booed and protested, drowning the killer’s voice.

  “We wish,” the killer started, and stopped to let the protests die down. “We wish to serve you and your queen in any capacity. Please spare us.” He glanced briefly at Luke and shot him a faint smile before returning his attention to the king. “I do truly apologize. I profess and declare in my conscience before God that our Sovereign Lord King Henry is the lawful and rightful King of this realm, and no other. I am at your command.”

  King Henry studied the killer’s upturned face. “For your humility and apology, you and your men are spared.” They lowered their voices and conversed, and Winton Hawke, if that was his name, disappeared into the crowd behind the king, likely to be interrogated about the day’s battle strategies.

  The king turned his attention to the army at the south end of the bridge. “Who else will come forward and declare fealty to me?”

  The Irish produced a loud, buzzing murmur of comments, but no one else came forward. A look of resolve froze their faces and they looked one to the other, all knowing what it meant to be taken alive.

  “So be it.”

  Wagg retreated to the riverbank, dismounted and approached Luke. "He'll wait for more to defect and beg his pardon, but we must be ready. He pointed to the supporting piers under the bridge. “Light them,” he barked.

  It was time. Cold settled in Luke’s stomach, cold and a dead calm. A glance back on the south bridge entrance showed that his brother was now being held by an Irish soldier. Luke tipped his head toward the boathouse and mouthed, “Go.”

  His brother shook his head and turned to watch the king.

  “God spare you.” Luke whispered and strode down the bank and under the bridge.

  Damp from lack of sun, the earth filled the base structure with a dense, green smell. He stepped over a large rock, round and so moist it had grown a crop of short, hair-like moss all over the top.

  His last image of the killer’s short-cropped hair flashed in his mind—the killer, fading into the crowd of royal soldiers at the north end of the bridge.