by Janet Lane
Britta watched the morning rituals with great interest. Sharai supposed it was her curiosity that kept her close by. Hers, or Lady Anne’s, she thought with a smile. “Thank you for your help, Britta, but I can tend to my own water in the morning.”
“Odd that you wash every day, if you ask me. You’ll likely be stricken, getting your head wet like that.”
“It has never made me ill. Washing makes it easier to braid my hair,” she explained to Britta. “My friends use oil, but I prefer water. It makes neat braids without leaving a hot feeling on my scalp all the day.”
Sharai slipped into her red linen gown, an ill-fitting garment Lady Anne had given her. When she found a moment, she would alter the dress.
She thought of Tabor and something tugged in her stomach again. She’d kissed men before, but never felt such passions as those he kindled in her. Had she gone to his chamber last night, she would have been in his arms when the dreams came.
She dropped her comb. What are you thinking, Sharai? He is a noble. She folded and re-folded her towel. Aye, but not like the rest.
She noticed Britta staring at her. “Thank you for soothing me last night.”
“Must have been unpleasant,” Britta ventured, eyes widened with fresh curiosity.
“Aye. Memories best forgotten,” Sharai answered quickly before she could ask pointed questions. “So what do you suppose Lady Anne has in store for us today,” she asked, changing the subject.
“More sewing. Now that negotiations with Lord and Lady Marmyl proceed so smoothly, I expect they shall visit soon. He’s an earl, you know. Think of it. An earl’s daughter, here in Coin Forest. Their shield is blue wings on silver, you know. Mayhaps you could sew a blue tablecloth in their honor.”
Egad, another project. “What shade of blue?”
“Like the sky.”
That was Lady Anne’s gown material. “I doubt we will have enough of that color for the head table. Mayhaps flowers instead,” she suggested.
“Yes. Oh, my lady is so excited for their arrival. And who could fault her? Tongues are wagging, and I hear her dowry is a fortune.”
Sharai stiffened. “Dowry?”
“Aye, Lady Emilyne's. For Lord Tabor. They will be wed, and Lady Emilyne’s dowry—” Britta glanced toward the door and leaned forward, lowering her voice. “I hear tell ’tis a thousand pounds.” She shook her head. “A thousand, can you imagine?”
* * * * *
Tabor crossed the bailey, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his face. Cyrill and he had worked the devil out of the squires again, and they had learned the penalty of an inaccurate aim. Now, he would like to enjoy some of this fine day. A ride in the woodlands would please him.
A ride with Sharai. She filled his senses, and he wished nothing more than to be with her. She was more than he had ever hoped for. Fantasy be dashed. Sharai was real.
His steps were light, and he couldn’t get there quickly enough. He would rescue Sharai from Lady Anne’s ambitious projects and show her the woodlands. He would hold her in his arms, taste her kisses, and this time, she would not wish to stop.
He climbed abovestairs to the solar, a withdrawing room where the women sewed. The windows there afforded more light for their tasks.
In the solar Lady Anne held fabric at various points on a dress form, while Sharai slipped pins into the silk. Britta bent over a table, cutting material, and Kadriya waxed thread and rolled it on a spool.
Tabor approached. “Hello, ladies. How goes your progress?”
“Good,” Lady Anne replied. “Sharai is every bit the seamstress you promised.”
“But we must not work her to exhaustion. You have been holed up here all morn with your fabrics. I’m taking a ride to the woodlands, and I would show it to her.”
Lady Anne shot him a dark glance. “We need to continue. There’ll be plenty of time for rides.”
“Just two hours, Mother. It will give you time to balance records with the butler, and we’ll be back before you notice our absence.”
Sharai’s hair was confined in a tidy braid again, disappearing behind her proud shoulders, and her temptingly curved lips stole his breath as if he had jumped off the cliffs in Southampton. He met her gaze. “Come and I’ll show you the meadow of the Coin Forest Legend.”
“Yes.”
The word, and the breathless way she uttered it, made his heart beat faster.
“Kadriya, too. Kadriya and I would join you.”
Not the more personal time with her that he’d hoped for, but still she would be with him.
* * * * *
Sharai and Kadriya approached the stables. They had changed from their English gowns and were wearing their usual Gypsy garb, short smocks over voluminous, flowing skirts.
Tabor mounted Bolt, his destrier, and the groom, Charles, brought Sharai a horse, Spirit, one of Tabor’s best.
She stroked Spirit’s muzzle and gestured to Charles. “Please remove the saddles for Kadriya and me.”
Tabor blocking the groom’s hand. “Nay. They will ride properly.” He lowered his voice. “’Tis the lady’s way of riding, Sharai. Surely you would want to appear the lady.” He stressed the last word.
She laughed, but it rang with a bitter edge, and her brown eyes were cold. “Years ago, yes, but you and I both know I am not.”
By the saints she was ill-tempered this morn. “I meant no harm, Sharai, I merely wished to point out—”
“Cease.” She released the saddle straps with startling agility and lugged the saddle to a surprised Charles. “I know full well what you think of me, Lord Tabor. I may change my language and my dress, but inside I will always be Gypsy.” She swung fluidly onto Spirit’s bare back.
Next to her, Kadriya mounted Prince, her pony. With a sideways glance at Sharai, Kadriya mimicked her perfect posture, right down to the proud tilt of her head.
Sharai’s gaze challenged him. “We’re ready.”
Learning nothing from her dark expression, he led them by the pastures north of the castle.
Sharai followed his gaze toward a herd of dairy cows. “They look fat and happy. Your sheep, too. I see a few have lambed late.”
“Yes.” They passed the west fields, flush with oats, and through a break in the hedgerows between the north and east fields. Once in the open, he urged Bolt into an easy canter.
They crossed a stream and approached a stand of trees, soaring tall in the sky, taller than most cathedrals, save for Salisbury’s pinnacle.
He stopped Bolt and covered his shoulders with his cloak, thinking of the previous night, how he’d covered her shoulders, how warm she’d been. Then.
The women donned their cloaks.
He wound through the trees, his eyes adjusting to the shadows of the green canopy. Cold, wet air chilled his face, and the rich, rotting smell of leaves and decaying wood filled his nostrils.
In a high branch above, a blue tit sang its melodies.
Sharai’s palfrey broke a branch. It snapped loudly and fell.
Kadriya reined closer to him. “How far is it?”
“Just past the mushroom tree.”
They rode on in a silence broken only by the soft hoof falls on the forest floor, and by the occasional snort of the horses.
The sun scattered fingers of light through the green canopy of leaves that covered the tall linden and oak trees, the yews and the shorter chequers. His land, his forest. It flowed through his veins as surely as his blood, and he would die defending it.
They reached a clearing where an ancient oak felled by lightning sprawled across the middle of it. “This dropped when I was but a boy,” Tabor said. By falling, its hundred-foot height had become a hundred-foot length, atop which moss, plants, and a profusion of brown mushrooms grew. “According to the legends, we follow the same route Roman soldiers took one day, over a thousand years ago. This trail leads to the site of the Coin Forest Legend.”
Kadriya turned her pony sideways. “A legend! Kadriya clapped her hands. "
Pray tell us, Tabor.” Her brown eyes, flecked with green, grew wide with excitement.
Tabor continued, hoping Sharai shared Kadriya’s interest in local lore. “A small band of Roman soldiers, cut off from their troops by a band of Picts, were chased from Southampton to this region, where they struggled to reach the safety of Salisbury. They carried with them a military map to be delivered to the emperor, Magnus Maximus. The Picts craved the soldiers’ map, but they lusted more for their cargo: Gold."
Kadriya gave a small squeal. "Gold!"
Tabor laughed. "Yes. A fortune in Roman coins, which was to be distributed as salary for the Roman Legions.”
“The forest provided cover, but the soldiers, having no reference point in the darkness, became lost and the Picts continued to gain on them.
“When capture appeared inevitable, the soldiers buried their coins and separated.”
“Did they come back for their coins,” Kadriya asked.
“Be patient, Sprig,” Tabor said, using Sharai’s nickname for the young girl.
They had entered another meadow, divided by a cheerful stream. Just past the meadow, a well-worn trail led to the right.
Tabor followed it, guiding Bolt up a large hill. Tall trees soared in the dark canopy, and one, a badly deformed oak tree, stood out, in the gloom. Thirty feet from the ground, the tree suddenly expanded, its straight trunk becoming a large bubble then, higher up, it reverted to its normal trunk size again. Tabor pointed at it. “Note you that tree.”
Sharai spotted it. “How odd.”
“It looks like it is with child.”
“Kadriya.”
“Well, it does. See, like she carries it low, ’twill be a boy.”
“Enough. Ladies do not talk thus,” Sharai scolded.
Kadriya lowered her head, her lower lip thrust out. “You tell me to speak the truth. Fine, then. It looks like a giant gourd.” She turned haughtily from Sharai, back to Tabor. "What of the gold?"
“Only one soldier made it to Salisbury alive. Try as he may, and he tried for many months, he could not retrace his path to the coins. Thenceforward, the village of Tabor became known as Coin Forest.”
Tabor dismounted, grabbed a dead branch and pointed it at the base of the misshapen tree. “Fifty years ago, on this ground, four Roman coins were found in bear scat. The forest was combed for months with no further clue.”
He made a gestured with his arm, encompassing the trees and the vegetation strewn forest floor. “Somewhere in the shadows of this forest lies a fortune in Roman coins.”
“Oh,” Kadriya crooned, apparently caught up in the magic of the story. “I shall find the treasure.”
Tabor gave her a stern look. “You are welcome to look, but you are never to come without escort to the forest, Kadriya. But Sharai must needs return to her work, and I to mine. Next time I’ll tell you of the nightingales and take you to the southwest forest, and another legend, Dragon’s Green.”
Kadriya urged her pony forward. “And I shall tell you a Gypsy story, Lord Tabor, about the Forest Faeries.”
“Never you mind, Sprig. Lord Tabor’s head is full enough of tales. He needs no more.” She urged Spirit forward to pass him.
Tabor grabbed the reins and held her back, waiting until the others moved further ahead. “What mean you by that comment? You’ve been cold to me this afternoon. Why?”
“Because I was foolish enough to trust you. To believe what you say.” She laughed. “The hot-tempered, judgmental Lord Tabor, high on his horse of truth and honor.” She slapped his hands with the reins.
Surprised, he released them.
She spurred ahead and turned her horse. She leveled a glowering look his way. “I have a word for you, and you won’t like it, but I should have read it in your eyes, long before now. I shan’t make the mistake again.”
“What word is that?”
She paused and turned to face him. “It’s a word used at the fairs when people present their wares for more than they are. Deceitful.”
“I suspected it before, but now I know. You are mad. It’s a legend. How can the Coin Forest Legend be deceitful?”
“’Tis not about the legend, though it seems well suited to you with your preoccupation with money. And after all those lofty speeches, Tabor.”
“I cannot continue this conversation.”
She reined Spirit sharply, and he backed up. “Yes, I suppose you wish not to talk with me.” Her voice lowered in rage. “I have no thousand pounds with which to buy you.”
Chapter Seven
Tabor crossed the drawbridge, heading for the church. He pulled his cloak close to ward off the morning chill. Sharai would be there for Lauds, he knew. She hadn’t missed a morning in the two weeks she’d been here. Since their trek through Coin Forest, she had uttered only the most necessary of words to him. Her anger over his pending betrothal seemed to have spent itself, and all that was left in her eyes was a minimal civility.
He missed their conversations. Just seeing her scattered his thoughts and reminded him of his longing. The soft swell of her breasts from her breathing after climbing the stairs. The way her hand went to her heart when pleased, to the back of her neck when provoked. Kadriya frequently encouraged the hand to heart movements. He had so far managed to inspire only the gestures of annoyance.
He wanted her to trust him, but he must admit he did not trust her, either. And the issue of Lady Emilyne’s dowry disturbed her beyond reason.
Mayhaps, being a Gypsy, she had no knowledge of marriage contracts. Yet she claimed nobility in Little Egypt, so surely she understood the concept of bloodlines. What had driven a girl of nobility from her country to a state of near starvation in France? Could her father have been found guilty of treason or refused to support his king? Both could have led to his forfeiting all his lands and titles.
He shook his head, trying to get her out of it.
He could not deny his obligation to complete wedding negotiations with the Marmyls. One thousand pounds. He must face his political realities. The Tabors had offered the king military support—his father fought with valor at Agincourt, and Tabor himself fought with Bedford in Normandy. Yet from the way the king had responded to Hungerford, loyalty meant less than financial gifts. Wealth was the new sword that would sway Gloucester by bolstering the war-ravaged treasury. Wealth would protect Tabor’s family and estates from political threats.
Hungerford had alliances—his cousin in the king’s council, a significant advantage. And he had wealth. He had stolen Tabor’s treasury, using it these years to buy favor in the courts. Emilyne’s dowry provided the chance to even the score. Everything, Tabor supposed, had a price.
His mother had negotiated a fine contract, and he would wed Lady Emilyne and accept her dowry. With a thousand pounds, he could secure legal favor, regain his stature with the parish, increase the security of his knights, repair the village curtain, re-roof the church, hire workers to bring in the harvest. His family, his village—all needed that dowry.
Approaching the church, Tabor noted the crowd milling in front of the building. None had entered. Even Father Bernard, his elderly priest, stood before the door, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Tabor’s muscles tensed.
Sir John strode toward him, his yellow hair bouncing from the urgency of his step. “A message on the door, my lord,” he said, his words rushed.
The villagers frequently used the church door to post notices of meetings, contests, or to share simple messages. What was posted there?
Bracing himself for bad news, Tabor hastened to the church door. A gruesome message had been nailed to the heavy wooden door: one of Tabor’s own carrier pigeons, blood still dripping. Tabor’s gut knotted. He scanned the crowd, searching for an expression of guilt among the men’s faces, but found none.
The note attached to the bird slipped easily from the nail. It was written on fine paper. Tabor read the message through the spatters of blood.
Thief. You continue your father’s sin of
stealing from women to fatten your coffers.
Death will visit Coin Forest again.
Will Lady Emilyne see you
through that,“Lord” Tabor?
Sharai appeared in the crowd and sent him a worried glance.
Tabor lifted the dead bird’s leg and unwrapped the message that had been removed once already, intercepted before it could be delivered. He unfolded the small piece of parchment.
To the Right Worshipful Lord and Lady Marmyl, I extend greetings. May this letter find you hale. I am most pleased with your acceptance of dowry terms. We joyfully anticipate your Thursday arrival at Coin Forest. Until then, may Almighty Jesus preserve you, both body and soul, &c. . . . The Right Honorable Lady Tabor.
So like his mother, Tabor thought. So formal, yet lavish, ever the contrasts. Tabor pocketed his mother’s note and scanned the bloodied one. Tabor could see the beefy, taunting face, as if he were there, before him. “Rauf.” His vision blurred, and a pressure built behind his eyes.
Sharai worked her way through the crowd, followed by Kadriya. “Did he sign it thus?” She spoke softly so only he could hear.
“Nay.” He turned to his knight. “Sir John, clear the door so Father Bernard can celebrate Prime.”
Kadriya stared, wide-eyed, at the dead bird.
Sharai grabbed her shoulders and turned her away. “Go you to the solar, Kadriya, and prepare your thread. I’ll join you soon.”
Tabor crumpled the note in his hands. God’s bones! Hungerford was hunting him, playing with him as toys with its prey. Entering Tabor’s stronghold. Anger drove him to decision. “Cyrill,” he shouted.
Cyrill hastened to his side. “Milord.”
“Gather provisions. Armor up. We shall meet the Hungerfords head-on.”
“On the road, my lord? Or at Hungerford?”