Crimson Secret

by Janet Lane

  “I’m aware,” Margaret said. “You have protected us twice this day, Lord Penry. Redstone will be safe, and you will receive a boon.” Margaret turned to the only surviving guard, John. “You will say nothing of this to a soul.” She lowered her voice and they continued talking, but their voices drifted away and all Luke could see was Joya.

  An inner light shone in her eyes, the copper flecks sparkling amid the brown. Her smile took his breath, beautiful as always, but now bright with barely contained relief and appreciation.

  Luke’s heart took wings and he no longer felt the canvas floor beneath him. Surely they must be breathing as one, the two of them, sharing this moment.

  Gradual awareness grew of the queen’s presence, and the moment passed. Too precious to be forgotten, he stored it in his memory and returned to Margaret, who had mentioned a boon and reassured him that the people of Redstone would be safe. “Merci,” he said to the French-born queen. “Merci boucoup.”

  * * *

  Luke gained passage from the layers of guards and approached the stables. With the total thrashing of Wagg’s armies, the royal armies had found time on their hands. The queen had kept her word and forbidden plundering, instead setting them to the task of burying the dead. Mace, Luke’s own crusty, scarred knight, had rescued Hugh, who was safe and waiting at the boat house.

  The royal family had taken temporary residence in his uncle’s home. In turn, James had made accommodations for Luke’s family and Joya in his home. Beds had been set up for Tabor and his knights at the haberdasher’s store, and Joya had been placed in the counting room with Florin.

  Luke had given Tabor and his family an abbreviated version of Wagg’s plan and briefly disclosed that he had sabatoged the plan to destroy the bridge.

  “You saved the king,” Tabor had said, his voice a mixture of awe and gratitude.

  At Margaret's request Luke had not spoken of Clavell’s attempted murders of the queen and prince. Now Luke responded to the queen’s invitation to join her in the stables. After today, there should be no further repercussions to his earlier alliance with York. Still, he approached their meeting with caution. The queen was known for her heavy demands.

  He rubbed the tight knot that had formed at the base of his neck. Luke had saved the royal family. For such significant service, he could expect an audience with them, and the bestowing of the boon Margaret mentioned earlier.

  But the day had passed without either one, and now this, a summons to meet privately with the queen. In the stables. It did not bode well.

  The late afternoon sun languished in the thin sky, and the chilling air had been made foul with the stink of death. Hundreds of bodies littered the riverbanks and surrounding fields. The many Irishmen who had survived, grateful to be pardoned by the king, had fled to the forest lest he change his mind.

  Inside, the air improved with the smell of newly stacked hay in the feeding bins.

  A fourth guard nodded to Luke and moved a respectful distance away as Luke approached.

  In the next stall Margaret wore a cape to protect her gown while she brushed a fine black palfrey, its coat shining with good health and proper care. He heard it had been a gift from the Duke of Somerset, one of the few noblemen who had gained and kept the queen’s favor over the years. Luke bowed and greeted her. “Favorite horse?” He asked.

  She regarded him with eyes bloodshot and swollen from Clavell’s attack. “His name is Saber. From the Spanish stock in Troyes. Multiple champions, both sides.” Pride thickened her voice.

  Luke observed his fine features and tack. “He’s a beauty.” He patted the horse. “You sent for me?”

  “I’m glad you finally returned to the king’s service,” she said. “The Ellinghams were steadfast in their belief that you would.”

  Saber slapped her with his tail. She smiled, indulgent, and resumed brushing. “Reports on Penryton are bad. The Yorkists ravaged it.” She sounded too pleased with her report.

  Luke dreaded seeing the damage. “And Wagg? Did you find him?”

  “Mauled by horses on the bridge. Still alive when our men spied him. Both legs broken. When they closed in on him, he mumbled something about being taken alive. Like the snake that he was, he rolled off the bridge into the river.”

  The queen held her neck and grimaced, as if she might have been injured during the struggle with the assassin. “Wagg’s commanders, Lord Harmon and the other one, they were slain by our cavalry.”

  Luke reflected. Wagg, self-serving and deceitful, had been quick enough to escape being drawn and quartered, but still suffered a difficult death.

  Margaret’s face darkened. “Most unfortunate. Wagg’s secrets drowned with him. We’ll never know how much York knew of Wagg’s plan, but we know this: York is in Ireland, and he’ll be back to fight.”

  She stopped brushing Saber. “Which is where you come in, Luke.”

  At the intensity in her eyes, Luke’s blood chilled.

  “York’s absence today confirms what you’ve told me, that Wagg acted independently. I’ve told no one that Wagg hired Clavell to kill us. Only my guard, John, knows and he's one of my most trusted.” She waved her hand, sweeping toward the bridge. “This incident will be recorded as an accidental clash, not a battle. Henry has won over the commanders and many of the Irish have pledged to join our army. Your part in this debacle is in no way evident to York.”

  Luke showed no response. He knows. I sent him a message. Caution kept him from telling her, though. The combination of treachery and sheer will behind those weeping eyes made him hesitate.

  She paused. “Now is the time for you to help me. I want you to report to York posthaste. Join York. Learn what he has planned next. You will inform me and join our forces. I’ll give you your own command.”

  Luke took an inevitable step into the quicksand, knowing the perils of refusing her. “Prithee no, my queen. I am no soldier or commander. I don’t have the heart for battle. And believe me when I tell you I do not have the disposition for intrigue. I would hurt your cause, not help it.”

  Luke had seen the post-battle brutality, royal forces walking among the dead on the battlefield and running through those who had not already died, slashing their way through the human carpet of wounded until nothing but tortured flesh and blood remained. War was unimaginably ugly. “Nor do I have the tolerance for command. I have always been … solitary.”

  She straightened, every inch of her small body tensing, her countenance as alarming as the stories men told of her at court, facing her enemies. “You will summon the strength you need to serve your king.”

  Luke’s mind raced, turning stones looking for other opportunities to serve her, searching for common interest. “I will build bridges for you.”

  “I don’t need bridges. I need leadership.”

  The stones looked more promising. Luke turned a few more. “I can give you that, my queen. Not with intrigue, or on the battlefield. I will rebuild Penryton, and offer you my support from there, and at court.”

  Margaret slapped the dandy brush in Luke’s hand. “Your brother then. What’s his name?” Her eyes clouded with a growing impatience that hung in the air like a night draft.

  Luke ran his thumb over the bristles. He could not avoid displeasing her with this.

  “Hugh? He’s—unnerved after Clavell’s attack. He’s not built for battle. Doesn’t weigh much more than your son. We both simply want to return to rebuild Penryton. I hope my service to you today—and my loyalty—have proven my worth such that you can honor this simple request.”

  A mean-spirited smile contorted her face. “Mayhap you and your brother are queasy soldiers. So be it.” She formed each word in controlled, overly enunciated anger, her eyes narrowed with a thinly veiled threat. “In view of your service, I would not have you be a reluctant commander.” She tapped the gate with the brush, rapping the wood several times. “You will provide me with a proven commander. At your expense.”

  Luke felt the heat of her a
nger and the underlying threat of absolute power. It could annihilate him and all he held dear.

  “And you will serve me. You will see York. You will learn his plan. You will report to me.”

  The door opened, and Joya approached. Upon seeing them, her smile faded. She lowered her head and held her hands, waiting for the queen’s invitation to join them.

  Margaret gave a terse wave acknowledging her. “You may enter.”

  Joya opened the gate and entered the side stalls. Her gaze flitted to Luke for the briefest of moments as if to read the situation.

  Luke glanced down, hoping she correctly read his gesture as a warning.

  Joya bowed to the queen, slightly lifting the skirt of her torn, dirtied gown. “Your Royal Highness. You summoned me.”

  “Aye. Margaret studied Joya, her gaze sharp, scraping across Joya’s hair, tangled and uncovered, over the soiled bodice and her muddied shoes. “You freed Lord Penry before I could meet with him.”

  Joya blinked rapidly. “It was a mistake. Lord Penry himself has said the same, and—.”

  “Your father is loyal. He tried to explain about the—the what? Apricot seeds?” She shook her head. “Deceitful. Reckless.” Margaret gave her a pointed look. “Think not that I didn’t see right through it. You defied me. You had good fortune in that I have been otherwise occupied until you could prove this man was worth saving.” Margaret’s eyes narrowed and she pointed the mane brush at Joya’s face. “I will not have you stain your father’s good name. Do not ever do that again. Never challenge my order. Never.”

  Joya began to drop to her knees.

  The queen grabbed her arm. “Stand. You’re disheveled enough as it is. Swear to me now. You will never again challenge me.”

  “I will never again challenge you, my queen.” Her brown eyes shone as she met the queen’s gaze evenly.

  The queen raised her brows, a trace of a smile pulling on her mouth. “Fortunately, you judged Lord Penry better than we did. Because of him, we are all here to tell the tale. Thank you for your part in protecting the prince. I trust you won’t be rash in the future.”

  “Pray forgive me, my queen. I was so sure of him.”

  “You were right.” She took a step toward Joya. “You have proven yourself.” She removed one of the several rings on her fingers and placed it on Joya’s middle finger. “To your king, and to me.”

  Chapter 22

  Two sets of three soft knocks sounded on Joya’s door. She and Luke had earlier agreed to the special signal before she retired to the counting room. His meeting with the queen was finally over.

  Her chamber had no windows, but she guessed the hour was late. She rose from her small bed and carried a candle past the empty shelves, all cleared earlier, Luke had told her, to protect James’ clients’ funds should the bridge collapse.

  Florin perched on the top shelf, his glowing cat eyes following her. Most unsettling, she thought, hurrying past him.

  She slid the three bolts free and tugged on the heavy door.

  Luke slipped in and secured the door. He cupped her face in his hands and traced its contours, soft as a whisper. “Some swelling. He must have hit you hard.”

  “I had a good grip on him. I wasn’t going to let him escape.”

  The candlelight flickered in his blue eyes, his gaze tender. “How are you?”

  “I want this to end.” It had been the worst day in her life. She had suffered paralying fear for Luke, her father, Degory and the sea of soldiers on each side of the bridge.

  Joya had tried to divert her gaze, but she had seen the dead in the fields, in the river; had heard the moans of the dying. It conjured thoughts of Giles, that each soldier had family and friends who would never see him again. She had spent the last several months resisting the signs of war. Villages, fields burned. Newly informed widows, eyes dulled with loss, returning soldiers missing limbs, eyes, any hope of ever providing for their families. Turn away, turn away, think of more pleasant times—but she had failed to escape the visions. Now they pressed on her heart and clung to her soul and she was trapped under a cloak of cold, leaden death.

  “It must end.” Many had died this day, but Luke had prevented hundreds, mayhap thousands more.

  Taking the candle from her hands, he put his arm around her and they walked to the small bed and sat down.

  She turned to him. “What does Margaret want from you? From the look on your face in the stable, it’s not good.”

  He placed the candle on the nightstand, took her in his arms, rubbed the tenseness from her shoulders. “She wants me to command her troops.”

  Joya had lived in constant fear that Luke would face the executioner, and now that he had escaped that fate, Margaret wanted him to enter battle? “No!”

  “I’m no stranger to the lists. I can face competition. Win most of times. I have good instincts. And I always enter the fields strong and well-practiced.”

  “But you saw, this morning. The death, the suffering…” Her throat constricted.

  “Shh.” He covered her face with his hand as if to shield her from the thoughts. “I would kill to protect you and my family. I have killed to avoid my own death.” He was silent for a moment. “But afterward, I'm overwhelmed with a curse, a … darkness that I must overcome.”

  He took a deep breath, exhaled audibly.

  She gripped his shoulders. “Please don’t. I can’t bear the thought, Luke.”

  “I refused her, moments before you arrived. She didn’t take kindly to it. I can only hope there are few repercussions.”

  Florin jumped into her lap, circled and snuggled, purring.

  “Sweet, big boy,” Joya crooned, massaging the cat's big head. “I heard James thanking you for saving Florin's life.”

  “He narrowly escaped the royal guards this morning. His eyes will be his undoing.”

  “They are beautiful, but unsettling,” she said. Luke’s rescue of him spoke well of his compassion. She squeezed his hand. “Thank you.”

  Candlelight flickered across his face, occasionally lighting his blue eyes. They shone with a new softness, a sense of ease.

  “You have been carrying Wagg’s secret since we met,” she guessed.

  “Nay. York’s original plans were for me to repair a bridge so York’s troops could outrun Margaret to the coast. I was told of the new plans after I left Cerne.”

  “Why did you finally pledge loyalty to Margaret?”

  “I gave you my vow.”

  “But why?”

  “Not for my faith in her. We will never agree on that.”

  “I must confess, our discussion on the boat was unsettling. I placed too much faith in her.”

  “And I too much faith in York and his followers. You judged Wagg correctly and quickly. Your wariness helped me to think more deeply on the Red Bridge plan. As soon as I realized it wasn’t York’s plan—he would never kill the king and most certainly never kill the queen and prince—I knew I had to alert Margaret.”

  “But pledge your loyalty to her?”

  “So she would believe me. Much as I believe York will be a better ruler, what Wagg schemed wasn’t war. It was murder disguised as war. Honorable men don’t murder women and children to make it easier to ascend to the throne. I was never able to confirm if the plan was York’s or Wagg’s, so in the end I had to trust my instincts. If I supported Wagg, I would be no better than the assassin.”

  She worked up the courage to ask the next question. “What happens now?”

  “Your father is taking you back to Coin Forest,” he said, stroking Florin. “And Hugh and I must go to Penryton. I dread seeing it.”

  They were taking separate ways. Joya blinked away the stinging of her eyes. “You’ve heard from William?” Her throat was tightening dangerously.

  “You remember his name.” He smiled. “I think I mentioned him only once.”

  She swallowed. Luke had great respect for his steward. “Is he safe?”

  “His babe was born the night
Penryton was attacked. It doubtless saved William's life, because he would have fought Clavell to save my brothers. I received word that he has a son.”

  “William was the only one I ever heard you say you trusted.” Her voice wavered, betraying her.

  “What’s wrong, Joya?” He scooped the cat off her lap and turned her to face him. “What is it?”

  “You don’t know? My father said he would discuss the hand fasting with you. Did he?” The folding of their hands would seal their betrothal.

  “He did. He said I was not welcome at Coin Forest until then.”

  “And?”

  “And what?

  “Will there be a folding of the hands?”

  “There are things…certain things…to work out.” He paused. “I asked Tabor for your hand. I want to uphold your honor, of course.” He gave her a restrained smile that troubled more than pleased her. “I assumed he told you.”

  “Why didn't you tell me?” She worried that he was unwilling, merely saving her reputation.

  His smile faded. “What are you about, Joya? The last remnant of his smile vanished. “After what we’ve shared, do you not wish to wed?”

  “What’s to work out about the hand folding? I want to know how you feel about me.”

  “After what we’ve shared, you know.”

  “I need you to tell me.”

  He pulled free from her, backing up to the very end of the bed, arms poised to bolt. His look was indignant, as if she had asked him to demonstrate hand spinning. “I know naught of courtly love and poetry.” He spit the words out as if they were bad plums.

  “I love you, Luke. I don’t need a long speech. Can’t you tell me how you feel about me?”

  “Let me show you.” Firelight danced across his features. His eyes deepened with tenderness, holding no fear or distance.

  A tingling swept across her skin.

  He licked his forefinger and thumb and snuffed out the candle.

  Darkness chased the trembling flame, and they were together, alone, in darkness.