by Janet Lane
Her fortitude angered Tabor, but he held his tongue, refusing to speak of the stories that kindled his own imagination, tales of pure love, untainted by greed. She was too self-absorbed, at her young age, to fathom such. “And what of honor?”
“Honor? You yourself pointed out that the oaf who stabbed you was a noble. I’ve seen your other English nobles, too, here at St. Giles and at Stourbridge, seen the cruel ways they treat their retainers. They have less regard for them than slaves. Nobles use the poor.” She gave a crooked smile. “And I plan to use them.”
Her disdain stung as a personal insult. “Such a lovely face, but what a cold heart. Should you find him, I pity your sorry noble.”
“You know not what I’ve endured.” Her voice wavered with emotion. She composed herself, reclaiming her lofty aura. “Enjoy your sad lot in life, poor Arthur,” she said, lifting her tattered skirt from the ground. “And I shall take my path.” She stalked to the door, her bare feet smacking in the mud.
Chapter Two
Five Years Later—August 1435
Tabor reined his horse to the crest of the hill. There in the meadow, overshadowed in the distance by the imposing Winchester cathedral, sprawled St. Giles Fair. Late afternoon sunshine slanted on the checkerboard of tents lining the river. Boasting flags of their owners’ colors, they sprouted on the bank like so many errant wildflowers.
Tabor looked for the weed among them, Hungerford’s black-and-white coat of arms. Not there. Good. Neither he nor his loutish son, Rauf, were here, so the fair was free of vermin.
It was here that Tabor had sought refuge in Etti’s tent five years ago, and it was here that Tabor would now buy horses and books for his scribe. And locate a seamstress for his mother.
He breathed deeply, taking in the aroma of pork roasting in spits and the bustling of mummers, gamblers, and merchants. He would see old friends. Enjoy the wenches. Laugh.
He checked the purse hooked on his belt, felt the modest bulge of coin, and reality dulled his excitement. He had regained his lands, but the crown continued to founder in chaos, affecting Tabor’s legal recourse against Hungerford.
The war with France limped on, and the child King Henry played with toy swords while his uncles clashed with legal weapons for control. Tabor’s petition to remedy Hungerford’s siege was met with a terse note demanding that Tabor “keep the peace.” The order meant that Hungerford would not be punished for the attack—for William’s death. And Aurora’s. Nor would he have to return the treasures he’d stolen from Coin Forest—the silver, the horses, the armor, the tapestries. His gut tightened at the injustice, but the royal order bound his hands as surely as the finest rope. He would have to continue his slow climb to fortify and restore his lands.
Cyrill and the young knight, John, shifted on their horses beside him. Cyrill spat. “Cursed long ride. My back is torturing me.”
Excitement shone on John’s thin face. Shorter than Tabor by three inches, he kept his yellow hair bowl cut high above his eyebrows. At ten and eight years he was eager to gamble. “Is there time for games before dinner?”
Tabor laughed. “A fool and his money, John.”
“I’ll do better this time.”
“Avoid the dice tables and you’ll keep your coins a bit longer.”
They dismounted, paid their toll at the fair gates, and set their horses to grazing.
Tabor glanced past the bend in the river ahead, where the low, grey dancers’ tents huddled together.
She came to his mind then.
In the five years since he had last seen the Gypsy girl, he sought her out each time he visited here but found neither her nor any Gypsy. It was as if the dark-skinned people had vanished.
Sharai. A woman now. Her name whispered in his memory like yielding summer grasses in the wind.
She had been pleasant, but she had also been strong, felling Rauf, stabbing him. He hadn’t died, after all. Afraid Rauf would bring others to finish Tabor, Etti smuggled him from the fair, hidden beneath bolts of fabric. And Rauf had been so embarrassed at having been bested by a girl that he spoke naught of it to the fair marshal.
Where is she now?
He turned away, putting the tents behind him. She was doubtless with some wealthy merchant, wearing finery as she’d predicted. She was but a passing memory, a dash of inspiration best left to the angels. Or devils, he thought, remembering her schemes.
Cyrill moved into his vision. “We know not who is in attendance here.”
“Be at ease. Curtis, the marshal, keeps the peace. Note how many reeves he hires to enforce it.”
“Aye, they crawl the grounds like spring rabbits. Yet as one who was almost murdered on these same grounds, you speak lightly of danger.”
“I’m not wounded now.” Tabor’s jaw tightened. “If he shows up, Rauf dares not challenge me to a fair fight.”
They approached several large casks of mead stored in the shade of ancient willows at the river’s edge, its honey sweetening the air.
Cyrill signaled to the mead master and thrust his leather flask out, and the vendor filled it. “Welcome, Lord Tabor, Sir Cyrill. ’Tis been a while.”
Tabor waved away the offered mead. “Later, thanks.” He must be sharp for the games. “Are we too late for amusements?”
“Nay, milord. Tables are open, if you feel lucky with dice, or target practice.” He raised his eyebrows. “Or archery.”
Tabor could almost feel the flex of the bow in his hand. He turned to Cyrill. “Join me?”
“Not against you.” Cyrill moved closer and spoke in a growling whisper. “My lord, with all due respect, if you simply gave up the Burley manor you could afford your purchases—”
“I will not.”
“—instead of trying to gamble your way back to solvency.”
A sense of inadequacy gripped Tabor. He struggled to keep Coin Forest afloat. Plague had stripped the region of hale souls to harvest the crops, and many who’d survived were leaving for the cities. He sent a prayer to his patron saint Monica. He’d test his skills again and he must win. “I’ll not break up my father’s holdings. Not one piece will fall.”
Cyrill pulled out of the huddle. “As you wish. I’ll inspect the horses and get settled.”
They entered the archery arena. Competition had already begun, led by burly farmers, mostly, their muscular forearms bulging from their days at the plough, their skin deeply etched from their days under the sun.
The games judge, a pinch-faced rooster of a man, eyed a dark-skinned man just past his prime, leaning against a wagon. Despite the day’s warmth, he wore a fine red cloak.
The skin, the dark eyes. Tabor’s pulse quickened. A Gypsy. They’ve returned.
He searched the arena for a perfect oval face with bold, brown eyes. He found none.
“Shower shooting’s next,” the games judge said. “The wager’s now two shillings. The prize?” He paused for effect. “One pound.”
At hearing the stakes, the crowd murmured.
A fair, curly-haired wench approached Tabor. “Win for me, Lord Tabor.” She winked. “And I’ll devote all my pounds ... to your pleasure.”
Tabor approached her, following the curve from her small waist to her full hips. Diana had caught his fancy in London last spring, and she had proven most capable at pleasuring. He gave her a lusty kiss, and the crowd cheered.
A movement caught his eye, the sway of the Gypsy’s red cape. The man appraised his competitors, lingering on Tabor. Shrugging the elegant cloak off his shoulders, he handed it to a friend and with an easy sweep tossed his coins into the hat.
Tabor deposited his.
“One target, one minute,” the judge yelled. “Ready now. Brace. Draw. Loose.”
Tabor released his first arrow then pulled the next one from the ground where he’d positioned them. Nock, string, pull, sight, release. The secret lay in making the arrows available without his ever having to drop focus from the string.
The sky had become thick with a
rrows, arcing to form a tunnel of slender fingers of wood and sparkling blades.
At the judge’s command, all shooting ceased.
Tabor strode to the target. With each step, the prize amount rang in his ears. One pound. One pound. It would buy him a badly needed suit of upper body armor.
He reached the butt. Red and green fletched arrows crowded the blazon, his and the Gypsy’s.
The judge nodded to Tabor and pointed to the target. “Eighteen, two on the blazon is four, twenty-two points.”
The crowd cheered and Tabor raised his fist, smiling.
“Count Aydin, sixteen, three on the blazon for six, twenty-two points. A tie. You’ll split the winnings.”
“Too bad, Tabor.” Diana brushed against him and joined other women headed toward the dice games.
Tabor saw his new armor vanishing in the Gypsy’s triumphant brown eyes, but he had won fairly, so Tabor shook his hand. “Congratulations, sir. Your name?”
His smile revealed even, white teeth. “Count Aydin.” He pronounced his name carefully, as if he were a herald giving accolades at a tourney.
“From Little Egypt?”
“Aye.”
Tabor kept his voice casual. “Would you know of a young laundress named Sharai?”
The Gypsy’s eyes darkened. “We have no laundress by that name,” he said, and spun away.
“Lord Tabor.” The fair master approached.
“Good eve, Curtis.”
Curtis’s head squatted on his barrel-like body, his face punctuated with piercing grey eyes that begged challenge. Tabor suspected that, when his mother first offered her breast to him as an infant, Curtis looked twice and selected the other one. Just in case. Perennially suspicious, he never let down his guard. Over all, fine qualities in a fair marshal.
“Hungerford’s not here yet, but he’s due,” Curtis said. “Have you settled your quarrel with him?”
Heat seared Tabor’s gut. “The man murdered my brother and his wife and plundered Coin Forest.”
“I hear he has claim to your estates.”
“Nay. His claim is groundless. My family is of noble blood, lineally descended over centuries. Hungerford whispers perjuries in the king’s court.”
“And the King doesn’t intervene?”
“At thirteen? He’s still too young to rule. The council leaves us to settle it.”
“So be it. But mark my words, Tabor.”
Tabor winced at the lack of title. It burned into his skin, an echo of Hungerford’s claim that Tabor’s ancestors were peasants, making him undeserving of the king’s grant of Coin Forest.
“There will be no incidents between you and Hungerford. Not at my fair.”
“When is he due?”
“Three days hence.”
Curtis left, and John rushed to Tabor’s side. “What did he say?”
Tabor slapped his back. “That you’re poor with dice, and we should join him for a wager at noontide.”
John’s eyes widened. “Really?”
“Aye. And he’ll be bringing his own dice box.”
After a moment’s hesitation, John laughed. “Loaded. I follow.”
Hours later, Tabor pursed his winnings, left the chess tables, and released two carrier pigeons to Coin Forest, summoning six knights to come to the fair and guard his purchases during the return trip home.
He walked along the riverbank, dimly lit by a new moon veiled in a thin haze of clouds. Tabor watched them hover, moody and transparent, like the threat that loomed over his head since his brother’s death. Tabor would buy horses and recruit harvest laborers, then he would petition Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, peacekeeper and Chief Councillor, to cure the Hungerford problem.
And he would avenge his brother’s and Aurora’s deaths, ere another full moon passed.
* * * * *
Sharai cried out and caught the offending fragment of needle in her teeth, pulling it from the tender flesh on the side of her finger. Blood beaded and rolled, dropping on the table.
Kadriya, lit by a sliver of early morning light from the tent’s fire vent, looked up from the pet dove she’d been cuddling. She perched the bird and ran to Sharai. “Is it bad?”
“Nay. Cursed things. They’ve been breaking at the eye. The merchants shall hear about this.” She sucked her finger and wound a strip of linen around the wound.
Kadriya’s small hands cradled Sharai’s wrist. “I’ll get some comfrey syrup to be safe.”
“I’m fine, Sprig.” Sharai used her pet name for her seven-year-old charge and stroked her light brown hair. Kadriya’s father was a Gorgio, a white nobleman from Southampton who had wooed and abandoned her Gypsy mother. Months after Kadriya’s birth, her mother died, and Sharai, ten at the time, had cared for Kadriya since then. Both without parents, home, or family, they shared much in common, and Sharai could not have loved Kadriya more if she were of her own blood.
A mile away the grand cathedral bells chimed, signaling Lauds. “Gather you your basket, and let us to the river for your lessons,” Sharai said.
“Then can we go to the main gate?”
Sharai laughed. Merchants from Douai had arrived at the fair yester eve with ten pack mules and four wagons filled with bolts of fine draperies and weavings. Kadriya thought the colors brighter than any rainbow. “Would you have us haunt the front gate the day long, until they settle in their stalls? She tickled Kadriya’s neck. “Come. Show me how much you’ve learned.”
They walked down to the riverside, to a place not far from the fair tollbooth where the willows grew. “Let’s go there.” She selected a lone willow clear of any shrubs where someone might lurk. “We will have privacy, yet be heard by the Marshal if need be.”
Sharai wove her way through the sighing branches, sifting them through her, enjoying the cool brush of the leaves against her skin. “Get busy, then. Hold your basket. Pretend I’m a big knave browsing the stalls. You will approach me—”
“I know, I know,” Kadriya interrupted. “I’m selling purses. You’ll try to pull me away.”
Wearing her strictest expression, Sharai glared at her. “This is serious. You’re small. Barely five stones. There are bad men here, bad man who will—”
“Steal me, sell me, hurt me,” Kadriya recited, tapping her foot in impatience.
Had Sharai impressed her sufficiently with the dangers? “I want you to be safe while you work.”
“Aye. So I see you. You’re a big oaf. ‘Silk purses for your ladyship, my lord?’ I ask.” Kadriya offered an imaginary purse.
Sharai smiled and slipped into the lesson. “Why, thank you, child. Bring it closer so I may see it.” Sharai put her hand out as if to take the purse, then lunged forward, grabbing Kadriya’s right arm.
“I turn to keep my right hand free.” Kadriya tugged, trying to pull away, but Sharai maintained a solid hold. “Let go. Let me go!”
Sharai pulled her off balance and dragged her along the grass on her knees. “Bad child. You’ll come with me, now.”
Kadriya scrambled, positioning her feet under her body, and regained her balance. She swung her basket at Sharai’s face and pushed hard, jamming the stiff handle at her throat. She kicked Sharai in the shins and grabbed her forearm, sinking her teeth into Sharai’s flesh.
“Ouch. Sprig.” Sharai released her arm.
Scooping a handful of dirt, Kadriya threw it in Sharai’s face, then stood back, reached for the leather strap at her calf and pulled a tidy three-inch dagger, slicing the air and backing away, her small chest heaving.
“You bit me too hard.”
Kadriya lowered her dagger. “I didn’t break the skin, that was the only rule. I did well, then, didn’t I?”
Sharai laughed, spitting dirt and rubbing the red welt of teeth marks on her right forearm. “Aye. You need no more lessons. You’re strong enough to sell alone. But only before noontide, never after. Any rogues who were heavy in the cups the night before will still be abed then.”
Kadriya’
s smile faded and her large, green-flecked brown eyes grew serious. “Thank you for the dagger.”
“You’re old enough now. Never use it unless you have to.”
Kadriya turned it in her hand, tracing the pattern of the bird in flight carved on its ivory handle. “Who gave it to you?”
“It was an unintentional gift.”
“Good score. ’Tis fine.”
“’Twas no lift. I claimed it from a dead man’s belt.” She averted her eyes from the handle, which brought back memories of the ship.
And the dark waters of Marseilles that stole her mother from her. “I was as young as you then.” She brushed the remaining dirt from her arm, wishing she could whisk the memory away.
“In Wallachia?”
“My home? No. In Marseilles, where I met Etti. She brought me here.”
Kadriya touched her face. “Be not sad.”
Sharai attempted a laugh, but it came out a strangled sob. She wrapped her arms around Kadriya.
They sat in silence, and the sun broke free from the clouds.
Kadriya wriggled out of Sharai’s embrace. “Can we go to the main gate now? See the Douai fabrics?”
This time, laughter came easier. “Sweet Sprig. How can I be sad with you?”
“Sharai?” A rough masculine voice sounded from the trail to the tollhouse.
She drew her dagger.
“’Tis me. Count Aydin.” He approached, wearing a brown doublet and a scarlet cloak trimmed at the sleeves in fox. She should know. She sewed it to his precise specifications, making several alterations to suit his fancy. He wanted the length almost at the knees to reveal his muscular calves, and extra padding in the doublet at the chest, though he hardly needed it. Still, he wore it well.
As he should. He instructed her to make it of such quality that it would equal that worn by the finest noble. He was Romani—Gypsy—like her. He had proclaimed himself their tribal king two summers ago, and, to appease the English nobility and garner alms, he dubbed himself a pilgrim and a count.
Count Aydin held no real title. No power, either, at least not with her. Sharai may have stumbled with men at first, but now she would control her own fate. She bowed slightly. “Your Grace.”