by Janet Lane
Maud’s smile faded with uncertainty.
Sharai stepped past Cyrill, brushing him with her full skirt as she passed. She took Maud’s hand in hers. “Thank you for helping Lord Tabor. ’Tis clear that you have both been in battle. These cuts above your brow should be tended by a physic, and you must be exhausted.”
Maud beamed. “Thank you, my lady. You are very kind.”
“You’ve earned it,” Sharai said.
Tabor turned to Sharai, and his face transformed. His eyes softened, the worry line at his brow vanished, and he broke into an undisguised smile of welcome. He looked every bit like a man bewitched.
Cyrill stepped in. He would interrupt the spell before the Marmyls noticed. “My lord, you had best away to the castle now, to bathe and sup, and rest.”
“Aye,” Tabor responded, but he had eyes only for Sharai.
She met his gaze. “Lord Tabor.” Her voice had turned silken, intimate.
Holy Pope.
Emilyne’s eyes narrowed.
Tabor drew near and touched Sharai’s cheek.
She covered her hand over his and closed her eyes. “Thank heaven, you’re safe,” she whispered.
Cyrill’s heart dropped in his armor. Slay the devil, Tabor is wreaking havoc with all our plans. We desperately need the Marmyl name and money, and here he is, giving sheep’s eyes to a Gypsy woman.
Sharai took his hand away and stepped back, raising a brow. “You have this habit of dressing like a peasant, Lord Tabor.” She spoke loudly enough for all to hear.
Lady Emilyne’s lips had thinned. “Does he?”
“Aye. When I first met him he was dressed thus. Though he smelled better, then.” She laughed, and it seemed to Cyrill that she was trying to lighten the moment.
“Curious,” Emilyne said. “He also appears to have the distressing habit of bringing home whores.” She put her finger to her chin as though thinking and cast a deliberate look at the Gypsy. “Mayhaps this one can sew, too, Sharai.”
Sharai’s eyes clouded with anger, and she spun to face Emilyne.
Maud stepped forward, her face animated. She touched Sharai’s arm, distracting her from Emilyne. “Sharai?” Her blue eyes looked upward and to the left, as though retrieving a memory. “Sharai!” Maud cried, turning to Tabor. “’Tis she you were calling in your sleep.”
Lady Anne coughed. “You sleep with her?”
“Do you?” Lady Marmyl’s voice rose an octave.
Sharai’s brows lifted. “He called my name?”
“Aye. Sharai, he said.” Maud talked quickly, apparently eager to please Sharai, the only one who’d welcomed her with kindness. “Over and over, plain as a pikestaff. ’Course in the dead of night I thought he said shall I, but laying eyes on you now, I can see how he would think of you in his dreams, when a man’s most in touch with his—”
Tabor waved her back. “Silence, Maud.”
Maud met his gaze, then looked toward the Marmyls and Lady Anne. Apparently realizing her error, she gasped. Lifting her skirts, she bolted down the road toward the village.
Lord Marmyl cleared his throat. “How inelegant, Lord Tabor. You will explain later.” His brows creased. “Privately.” He took his wife on one arm and Lady Emilyne on the other, and they strode away.
Lady Anne approached Tabor, her eyes narrowed in anger. “You inept fool.”
“What mean you? I do all in my power—”
Anne laughed. “Power? You look so imposing in your rags, Richard.”
“—to save Coin Forest. While you perch in the castle like a fine bird, preening in your silk and new carpets.”
“Silk and carpets? What about all those costly books you covet? Folly. I create respectability, and you—”
“A man has to fight. I sensed a trap in Hungerford. Withdrew and wore these clothes to conceal my identity, to gather information. I need welcome, but you give me insults.”
“Look like a man and I shall treat you as such.”
Tabor laughed, and it rang with an edge of bitterness. “’Tis all appearance to you. And what were you doing at the mill at this time of day?”
“Showing the earl your method for sorting the flour. He was impressed with your land drainage methods, too. Then you show up dressed like a cur, dragging a filthy whore behind you.” She regarded his tattered grass sandals, then met his gaze. “So you lust for Sharai, do you? Will you harbor a stable of whores after you wed Emilyne? ’Tis certain you’ve impressed them with your appetite.”
A look of startled hurt crossed Sharai’s features.
Anne threw a look of disgust toward the village, where Maud had run, and released a strangled sob. “How could you be so reckless?”
Tabor’s face darkened. “Check your tongue, Mother.”
“Why for? Would that William had not died. If only . . .”
She winced, and her words trailed off, but the thoughts behind them had leaked into the air as sure as they were breathing it. Unable to exit without notice, Cyril studied the well-known details of the millhouse, occasionally shooting a look of reprimand to the nearby children, whose ears were very busy.
Tabor grabbed her arm. “You’ve harped the same song too long. William, William. He’s dead and I’m not. Accept it.”
She clamped her teeth together and jerked free from his grasp. “You’ve always been difficult.” She turned on her heel and strode away.
To spare Tabor further embarrassment, Cyrill walked back to the mill. From the corner of his eye he saw Thomas and the urchins shift weight, then they backed away and broke into a full run. Tongues would be wagging through the night, he was sure.
Sharai watched Tabor, her heart aching for him. He’d escaped death’s grasp defending his lands, and his mother could only disparage his appearance. Though shabbily clothed, wild-haired, bruised, and unshaven, he wore his honor on his sleeve. Sharai could read nothing from his guarded features.
He turned from her and strode to a small grove of trees to the right of the large mill wheel.
She caught up with him and put her hand on his shoulder. His muscles were drawn tight under her fingertips, and he flinched from her touch.
Her chest was heavy with sorrow for him, for the wounds Lady Anne had unthinkingly inflicted. She wanted to help him, to ease the burden of his suffering.
She found the string around his neck and lifted it above the collar of his tunic. “I see my amulet worked.”
He met her gaze. Pain shone in his eyes.
She smiled. “I’m so glad you’re safe.” Her voice broke as she tried to dispel Anne’s shameful revelation about how little she cared for her second-born son.
He reached for her, then pulled back. “I am in no condition to be near you.”
She came closer, wrapping her arms around his neck. The stench was unpleasant, but somewhere through all the odor was her very special man, a man who annoyed her, insulted her, and befriended her, a man she could never have, yet one for whom she cared deeply. “I shall hold my breath.”
She touched her lips to his, the soft stubble of his beard tickling her face. She wanted to soothe him, to heal some of the raw wounds with her warmth and caring. His lips pressed gently against hers, and a soft flicker of heat streaked inside her.
His tongue slid over her lips and the fire deepened.
She welcomed him. Careless of the smell, she pulled him closer. He was alive. Alive. And he dreamed of her, called her name, Sharai, in his sleep. Desire swirled, making her warm and hungry.
The distant sound of children’s laughter brought her back. They were not alone, and Tabor was not to be hers. He was spoken for, and his intended waited, just yards away. She felt the chill of loss penetrate her skin, settling deep inside. Wish as she might, it could not be dispelled. She ended the kiss. “You must go to your lady.”
* * * * *
Tabor sat in the solar with Lord Marmyl, watching the fire, listening to the silence brood against the stone walls. Lord Marmyl placed great stock in streng
th, so Tabor resisted the strange urge he had to pace. It had been a painfully long day. Supper had been dismal, his mother avoiding him, Lady Emilyne glowering at him, and Sharai’s absence chilling the great hall despite the roaring fire.
The clean, fine linen and soft leather shoes soothed him, but the comfort could not allay his injuries. His face throbbed, and the wine, though smooth and sweet, did not lessen the pain in his shoulder that came from jerking on the dungeon chains. He was near exhaustion, but summoned the energy to be wary. After his ignominious arrival earlier today, Lord Marmyl would have his say.
The earl rose. He wore a padded doublet of deep red velvet, featuring a high, standing collar that rose to his ears, the type of collar Tabor could not abide. Marmyl’s hose were trussed to perfection with nary a wrinkle. He stood tall and his brown hair, flecked with grey, precisely cut and combed, framed his small eyes and round nose. He approached the table and lifted three books, tilting their covers to the fire’s light. “A Knight’s Tale. The Song of Diana. A Tale of Love.” He read the titles aloud. “I recognize Chaucer, but these others? Obscure. I have seen such books burned. You prefer romantic myths over law, or history?”
“I find history useful. I own books of law, as well, but I find these stories fascinating.”
“Wherever did you find them?”
“I rented them at St. Giles’ Fair.”
Lord Marmyl rose one eyebrow. “Oh. The same place you found the Little Egyptian,” he said, referring to Sharai. “They claim nobility, you know.”
“Aye.”
“’Tis total deception. They arrived in Paris when I served there. High on their horses they rode, and they dressed well. Called themselves counts. Princes. Kings. But they lived in tents and camped at the rivers, drinking the very water they fouled. They lingered near the fairs and stole cheese, grain, especially sheep. They commune with the devil, you know. They can make bears dance, and they worship wood faeries.”
Tabor recalled Kadriya’s words: I shall tell you a Gypsy story, Lord Tabor, about the Forest Faeries. “The faeries are no more than stories, like our myths.”
Marmyl put the books down on the table with a loud thud, and settled back into his chair. “They sell their women’s flesh for coin, and have been known to sell their children as easily as a horse.” Marmyl’s brows furrowed in a stern expression. “The Gypsy women dance at fairs. Bewitch young men. Distract them from their duties.” He gave Tabor a pointed look. “Seduce them to their ruin.”
“I have seen both Gypsy and Gentile dancers at the fair.”
“They’re heathens.”
“Not Sharai and Kadriya. Sharai . . .” Tabor stopped before telling the earl, his future father-in-law, that at just twelve summers, Sharai had saved his life. The story would reveal weakness, and Tabor’s face warmed with the mere thought of it. “Both have been baptized. Sharai used to attend the church in St. Giles, before they came here.”
“Mark you the lessons learned in France. Where one appears, others follow. Hundreds. Then try as you might, you cannot rid yourself of them. They are lice, devil’s thieves, and the woman’s presence here vexes Emilyne. She must needs leave.”
“Father Bernard has forbidden her to leave because she is now a Christian.”
“She can pray in any village. She need not linger here.”
Tabor fell quiet. He’d learned from Cyrill that Sharai almost left before he returned, and the thought of her leaving had shaken him. He was thankful for Father Bernard’s religious fervor.
Lord Marmyl rose, standing to his imposing height. He surpassed Tabor’s height by an inch. “And Maud?”
Tabor stood, too, not allowing Marmyl to tower over him. “She saved my knight. I’ve promised her a home here in the village. I have no personal interest in Maud, I assure you.”
“What you have not assured me is the more telling.”
“About what?”
“Be not coy. Sharai. Hungerford. This whole issue of nobility and land.”
“You question my nobility? How could you—”
“I question your competence.” Marmyl’s raised voice echoed. “Come, Lord Tabor. Lower your hackles. We’re on the same side. I fought with your father in France. Our families have been active in the same parish for generations. You’re a second-born son, and frankly, your father neglected you. Let you wander with diversions like archery and books when you should have been fighting, and learning law and strategy. But you’re strong and clever. You recovered well from the siege, and I’ve toured your fields. Crops are plentiful—you manage your lands well. And my daughter chose you.”
He and Emilyne had played together as children, but had never been close. Ever since wedding negotiations had begun, Tabor had received nothing but frowns from her. “She seems not to like me.”
“She requires wealth and dignity, and you’ve given her little reassurance in either area, I’m afraid.”
“I am honorable, Lord Marmyl. I—”
“Then prove it. Until you do, we shall not tarry. We leave on the morrow.”
“Leave? But I thought you’d stay until the harvest festival.”
Marmyl’s gaze was chillingly direct. “’Tis Lady Emilyne’s request to depart. She will only return once your Gypsy ‘princess’ has gone and you have secured your lands. I know of Gloucester’s decision to hear your case,” he added, speaking slowly to emphasize his words. “I will be there, too.”
Tabor caught the far from subtle warning. Marmyl served on the king’s council and was not only privy to his case, but could sway its outcome.
“We go only to Wells to visit my brother. You may contact us there.”
Tabor’s stomach knotted. Marmyl’s presence enhanced the safety of Coin Forest, as well as its stature. “I fail to see why Sharai’s presence offends Lady Emilyne. She appreciates Sharai’s skills with the needle, and has had Sharai sew a dress for her.”
“Whores are for play, Tabor, not to keep against the will of your betrothed.”
“Sharai is not—”
“Lady Emilyne is a Marmyl, the daughter of an earl.”
Tabor nodded, well aware of Marmyl’s considerable stature.
“I will not have my daughter playing second to a heathen Gypsy.”
Tabor’s temper rose, and he took a step forward.
Marmyl waved his hand as if to stop him. “I can help you at council, Tabor.” His voice lowered, becoming warmer, embracing Tabor like a concerned uncle, or a father. “You’re a determined young man, and thus far you’ve dealt well with adversity. You’ve displayed admirable strength and resourcefulness at saving Coin Forest, and I would be pleased to help you secure it for all time.” He patted Tabor on the back. “And I would be proud to call you my son.”
Proud to call me son. Tabor's throat constricted, and he fought the sting behind his eyes. Tabor had craved those words from his father, never to hear them. The earl offered approval and acceptance.
Marmyl placed his hand on Tabor’s shoulder. “We leave on the morrow, at first light. Do this, Tabor: settle with Hungerford. Prove your bloodline. And rid yourself of the cursed Gypsy.”
Chapter Eleven
Tabor rested in his chamber. His bones ached from weariness, but sleep evaded him. The weak firelight cast pulsing jots of light on the shuttered window.
Out there, Coin Forest, the valley and gentle hills of his demesne. To the south, Fritham. Since William’s death he’d salvaged the villages, but more repairs were needed. He yearned for the prosperity that William had enjoyed, and needed relief from the constant struggle to keep his holdings afloat.
Sharai. She entered his mind on a soft breeze. Now he knew the intense longing that Prince James spoke of in his Tale of Love. Tabor doubted anyone could pen the feeling that swept over him when she was near him. Sharai brought an excitement and a warmth in his chest that rendered breathing difficult. In Sharai’s touch he found fire, but also . . . what? He paused and thought of it again. A special bond.
; She could be just a scheming woman, as he had thought in the beginning. Mayhaps she used her feminine ways to achieve her goal, and cared nothing for him.
No. She’d demonstrated her loyalty with Etti and Kadriya. He’d seen it in her eyes when he returned from Hungerford with Maud. All others judged him. Only Sharai welcomed him and cared for his safety. Had saved his life; he would never forget that.
He allowed a reckless hope to settle. Mayhaps she cared for him as he did her. But what of Marmyl, and Tabor’s obligations? With Emilyne, he could succeed, but he felt naught for her. She was attractive and intelligent, but he sensed no warmth or passion from her. She was honorable, well bred, and noble, all the qualities he’d admired and sought to sustain.
With Emilyne, he could succeed. He must try harder. Cyrill was right, his mother’s advice sound, Marmyl’s, too. Tabor might not love Emilyne, but he needed her. Marriage was not about love. That was a notion found only in his books.
His family, his heirs, and the people of his villages depended on him. He could not abandon them to men like Rauf. He would take Sharai as his mistress. She wanted a noble’s money, and with him she would have it, that and security for her and Kadriya. He would wed Emilyne to fulfill his obligations and strengthen his demesne, but he would not forfeit the love he had found with Sharai.
He needed to talk to Emilyne.
* * * * *
Tabor exited the castle and spied Lady Emilyne by the second tower. The predawn sky had lightened to silver, and men were loading the Marmyls’ chests and mattresses into the lead wagon. If Tabor could not convince Emilyne to stay, they would leave. He must find the right words.
He straightened his doublet, a new one Sharai had sewn in green silk. Above the guard tower, his banner furled in a gentle breeze, and he smiled. Same material. He pushed the thought away. He needed all his wits to convince Emilyne that Sharai was innocent, not the dark threat that her father had described.
Tabor strode to the head wagon, where Emilyne was slipping a decorative red bag into a chest. She wore a tan gown trimmed in fox and tightly cinched, revealing a trim waist.