by Janet Lane
“I have these, and other stories. They have intrigued me since I first fell in love, when . . .”
“When you fell in love with Aurora?”
“She didn’t love me.”
“Maybe she did.”
“She pitied me. All these years I dared hope that love would come into my life, that I wouldn’t be forced to live without it. I’d come to believe it was all a tale, like the Greek myths, but then I found you.” His lips touched hers, his kiss a warm caress that reached her heart. “Prithee never leave me. I wish you to never travel again, lest it be with me.”
She sighed, nestling in the crook of his arm. “Oh, Tabor, I’m so happy. I’ve been alone for so long. Not lonely, because I have Kadriya, but,” she shrugged, trying to put her feelings into words, “well, alone.”
He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her forehead. His eyes shone brown and clear in the firelight. “So long as I breathe air you shall never be alone again, Sharai.” His voice rumbled deep with emotion, as if he had just made a sacred vow.
* * * * *
Tabor handed his steward, Edwin, the accounting books. “Your calculations exceed my hopes, Edwin.”
Edwin fingered the pockmarks on his face, remnants of the illness that almost took him last winter, a frown line creasing between his brows. “But now the harvest. We need men.”
“You posted the notice to London? Many are leaving the city to avoid the plague. We have a place for them here,” Tabor said.
“Aye, and sent word to Southampton and Exbury.”
“Good. Now we wait.”
Tabor bade him well and checked the towers and guard stations. Overhead, the skies were clear, the sun unfettered in its morning ascent. He passed the kitchen, filling his lungs with the smell of bread baking for dinner. Though he’d just finished breaking his fast, the sweet smell tantalized.
A splash of color moved in the garden. Sharai was tending the bean plants, just below the wall walk. The wooden walkway hung four feet below the top of the twelve-foot-high stone curtain that protected the bailey. It provided his garrison protection and a strategic place to repel the enemy in times of siege.
He slipped into the gate. She was on all fours. Her rump, round and firm and accented by her small waist, was poised in front of him, swaying enticingly as she loosened the soil at the base of the plants with a trowel. His body tightened in desire and he dropped to his knees next to her. “Good morn.” Hidden in the tall bean plants, he nuzzled her neck. “What brings you to the garden every morn?”
She turned to him, the whiteness of her broad smile dazzling. “Look.” She cupped a small blossom on the late bean plant.
Tabor looked closer. “A blossom. Aye, where the pod will grow. And?”
“It’s life,” she whispered. “What is life, but a promise of tomorrow? And here it is, so white, so tender. Beautiful.” She regarded him. “I used to garden with my mother before—” pain pulled at her features, and she paused. “Well, before.” She cleared her throat. “I’ve missed the quiet of a garden.” She raised her face to the sky. “See, how the sun filters through the leaves, making them glow light green, and how the darker leaves give it a lace-like pattern? I come here in the mornings to watch the light, to see how the sun falls on the land, on this special place, each day.” She scooped a handful of soil and let it sift through her fingers. “This garden, the mushroom tree, the stream where we . . .” She dropped her lashes, suddenly modest, Tabor supposed, at recalling the passion they’d shared there. “This land. It’s you. Me. Your family. Your ancestors. All they’ve ever lived or breathed or bled, it’s all here. Always the same, something you can count on.” She sighed. “Something of beauty and permanence. I have not felt thus since . . . for years.”
She looked so beautiful to him, and the words she spoke united him with William, and with his father, and it breathed color and life into the precise lines Father Bernard had drawn on the heraldic chart that spread across the parchment like so many veins in an ancient rock. That she, who wandered through countries, homeless, could sense his blood investment in the land on which they knelt, amazed him. He wanted to preserve this moment. The dappled sunshine lighting her ebony braids as they fell to the swelling bodice of her gown, her skin, dark bronze in the sunlight, her eyes smiling, no worry, no protective shield barring him from her feelings as she traced his bond to the land and shared the secrets of her heart.
He held her hand. “I missed home in France. I was there for months, and the weather. October, rainy and cold, with illness and death all around. I cannot imagine your traveling, years, without a home.” He put his arm around her, pulling her closer. “I’m sorry for the grief you have borne.”
“Chut,” she said, dusting his nose with her braid. “I’m happy for life’s gifts. Gifts like Kadriya. Like the priests at St. Giles.” Curling tendrils of black hair framed her expressive brown eyes. “Gifts like you.”
* * * * *
Rauf stood patiently attentive while Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester and Protector of the Realm, mounted his horse, sitting tall in the saddle to prevent the heavily jeweled collar he wore from chafing his stinking royal neck.
Gloucester seemed to enjoy the view from up there, looking down at Rauf. The duke’s hands sparkled with finger rings of gold, emerald, and ruby, and his eyes held that cool, appraising look that only royalty possesses, a look refined by living for thirty and two years with full license to control others’ lives. A look of privilege that Rauf would enjoy changing to terror.
Humphrey swung a final imperious glance at Rauf, then his father. “I shall see you in London then, Lord Hungerford, a fortnight hence.”
The old man raised his cane in salute, giving Gloucester a bow and smile, his features brittle and unconvincing. “Godspeed, Your Grace.”
Gloucester guided his horse through the portcullis, and his small army of knights closed in to protect him. His entourage waddled out of the castle gates, fat on three weeks of feasting and whoring. Forty-five strong, they’d stripped the Hungerford buttery of all but one barrel of its wine and had left the larder bare.
Rauf wiped the sweat from his brow. Just eight bells, yet all traces of dawn’s welcome coolness had been burned away by the sun. “Who hosts his hungry household next?”
His father turned to him, his white eyebrows drawn in anger. “The Bishop of Bath, who will undoubtedly be more gracious than you were. You bordered on churlish throughout his visit,” he reprimanded him.
Rauf shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t want to fight with his father. He wanted to get him to commit their garrison to an attack on Coin Forest, but he couldn’t resist sharing his observation. “He is no pillar of grace, himself, though he fancies himself king.”
Hungerford stroked his mustache. “He will never be so.”
Rauf steeled himself for another story of the continent and his father’s glory days.
“Aye, he’s not the man his brother was. Henry saved Gloucester’s life at Agincourt. Now, Gloucester repays him by stopping at nothing to take control from his son, the legal heir.”
“’Tis no challenge to browbeat a lad of fourteen,” Rauf countered, giving a pointed look to his father. “I could trounce Gloucester on any battlefield.”
“Keep your eyes open with this one, Rauf. He’s killed many men. He’s impetuous, but his mind is keen. His days in the field are far from over, and he still fights with the intensity of a hungry wolf. He fights legally, and with that you are as awkward as a horse in church.”
“Oh? And how much can you accomplish? You can hardly stand. Your body gets weaker with each day. And don’t think Gloucester doesn’t know where your loyalties lie.” Rauf’s father was firmly allied with Cardinal Beaufort, Gloucester’s enemy. “He knows it, and will never trust you.”
“I don’t need his trust, nor do I need physical strength, truths you cannot seem to grasp. Use your wits, Rauf. My cousin, Walter, serves at the king’s council. We’ve managed to discredit Tabor and
present him, stinking of piss and looking like a swill rat, to Gloucester, who heads the council. Which of us do you suppose will enter that chamber with the advantage? I’m assured of my cousin’s vote, and by the time I’m done Gloucester will want to grant Coin Forest back to our family. When presented with an obstacle, Rauf, one doesn’t always have to bash one’s head into the wall. Some of the time one can achieve more success by tunneling under it.”
“So you mean to ride off to London to meet with a handful of old men when we could hit Tabor hard, now that Marmyl’s gone. Let’s strike. Avenge your sister Margaret, then call all your old legal owls together for court and make Coin Forest ours again.” Rauf took a deep breath. If his father wouldn’t go, Rauf would, and while he was there he’d collect the traitorous alehouse whore, Maud. Punish her and that harpy Gypsy woman. “Let’s settle it.”
“I have a more effective method in mind to sway Gloucester to our cause.”
Rauf pounded his fist into his open hand, causing a loud smack.
Hungerford flinched.
“Your mind is old. Feeble. You need to hit an obstacle head-on. No pansy-dancing around it. Slay it.”
“You tried once. Not again.”
Rauf clenched his right hand, wanting to punch the life out of the old bastard, but Rauf was not prepared to pay the price it would cost if he did it now. He would find a more opportune time.
* * * * *
Tabor held Sharai’s hand as they walked along the lazy Poole River that bordered the west fields. Her small fingers laced around his hand like a soft whisper. Trailing her free hand in the high grasses, she brushed the dew from the tips, creating small rivulets that ran down the blades. She wore a white ribbed gown with an orange and brown striped trim that dropped to reveal the creamy swell of her breasts. She had braided her hair with white ribbons. Her oval face wore a serene expression, and her generous lips, swollen from their night of loving, were turned in a gentle smile.
Mist rose from the river in the early dawn light.
He’d soon meet with Cyrill to work with the squires at quintain, and in a sennight he would leave for London and the royal court, but for now, he would enjoy this time with her.
“It’s so beautiful here, Tabor. You have everything you need.”
He squeezed her hand. “Now. Now I do.”
The sound of soft bleating reached them from the flock of sheep just ahead.
Sharai plucked a stem heavy with grain, twirling it in her hand. “Your land is rich. Not so where I am from—it’s drier.”
“In Little Egypt?”
She smiled knowingly. “Nay, as I suspect you’re aware, I’m no princess. I’m just a merchant’s daughter, and I’m from Wallachia.”
“Near Constantinople?”
“Lipscani, on the plains. When we left, we followed the Dunaria River for six days and reached the sea. After three days, we saw Constantinople. From a distance.” A shadow crossed her features and she looked away.
“Is that the last time you saw your parents?”
“My mother traveled with me.”
“But I thought Etti found you, orphaned, in Marseilles.”
“During the voyage, plague broke out on the ship. Most died, even the captain, but one sailor remained alive to bring us to port.”
An image of the silent ship, and Sharai there, among the dead and dying, made him shudder.
A scream pierced the air. An animal in agony.
Sharai’s hand flew to her chest. “What?
Another scream, unearthly. He’d heard it earlier in the spring. Another lamb. “Not again.”
They ran to the source of the screaming, but it stopped. They found a late lamb, convulsing in the grass.
Sharai dropped to the ground, murmuring reassurance to the animal, and felt its stomach. “Full, and hard as stone. He has overeaten.”
Tim, the shepherd, hurried toward them and knelt to the animal. He pushed Sharai away and scooped the animal in his arms. “Stay you from it with your dark spells. You’ve cursed it.”
Sharai glared at him. “What foolishness. This lamb has gorged itself. I’ve seen this happen with our goats, too. Has it been weaned?”
Tim shrank from her. “You curse it with your touch.”
Tabor put a hand on Tim’s arm. “Quit this nonsense. We lost several lambs in spring from the same sickness. It’s not Sharai’s doing.”
Edwin, the Steward, arrived, winded. “What goes here?”
The lamb gave a weak bleat and closed its eyes, and Tim dropped the animal. The shepherd cast Sharai a haunted, wide-eyed glare. “You killed it. I heard about you and your dark-skinned tribes. You cast evil eyes and spells with frogs. It’s the devil’s work!” He backed away and bolted back to his herd.
Sharai knelt and stroked the animal’s head. “It’s a feeding problem.” She met Edwin’s accusing eyes. “Or would you believe the shepherd?”
“Of course not, Sharai,” Tabor said.
Edwin took the dead lamb and looked to Tabor. “Do you not wonder, just a mite?”
Tabor helped Sharai to her feet and regarded him in reprimand. “Are you daft? Nay. Now apologize to the lady.”
Edwin glanced at Sharai, then back at Tabor. “Forgive me,” he mumbled, then left them, striding in the shepherd’s direction.
Field workers had gathered, staring openly.
Sharai blinked quickly and pulled her hand free from his. Turning away, she ran toward the mill.
Tabor followed, rushing past the wide-eyed peasants. and caught up with her. “After losing lambs this spring, they’re afraid.”
She shook her head, an expression of exasperation on her face. “Fear has closed their eyes.”
He would explain this to her so she could be spared such embarrassment in the future. Him as well. If Gloucester heard Tabor was harboring a sorceress, it would risk his claim to Coin Forest.
“Look at the frog bones and how my mother reacted. People do not take kindly to spells.”
“It was naught but good wishes. You know that.”
“But it’s dangerous, Sharai. Look at the damage it’s caused already.”
“But what of the young girls who sing ‘loves me or not’ and pluck the daisy petals? Or those who make a wish on the chicken’s breast bone, then break it? They are not accused of sorcery.”
Her logic seemed sound, but he shook his head. “You must cease—”
“And what of the floating wishes ceremony on Midsummer’s Eve? I have seen this for myself, every summer I have been in England. Nobles and peasants alike float a candle on a piece of wood—”
“I know, I know,” he interrupted. “If the float sinks or the flame blows out, you never get your wish. How does that relate to spells?”
“If the candle stays lit, you get your wish. Wishing on a flame. Or with petals, wishing on a flower. Or a chicken’s bone. Be it sorcery, or just wishful thinking based on the heart’s desires?”
“You were chanting to a dead frog, Sharai. You were seen, and heard. Coin Forest--England--is a dangerous place to practice any kind of sorcery.”
“What do you want of me?”
He turned her to face him. “Stop making spells. My father was almost killed with a potion made by Lord Hungerford’s sister. She was imprisoned for sorcery. Edwin remembers and it stirs deep fears. That is the one thing from which I cannot protect you.”
* * * * *
The priest’s voice droned to conclusion, ending Vespers, and the church grew loud with the shuffling of feet on the rush-strewn stone floor. Lifting his vestments, the priest exited, encouraging all to leave the church and take supper.
Lord Hungerford checked once more for sign of his son. Not sighting Rauf’s broad shoulders or bulbous nose, Hungerford breathed easier. His son became more impatient every day, and Hungerford had begun taking precautions to avoid being alone, just in case his brash son lost all patience and took a dangerously rash step, just when victory was within reach.
Today,
Hungerford had taken the chance and remained alone after mass. The church grew quiet, and the voices outside faded as people headed to the great hall.
Dank air, heavy with the smell of sweat, manure and ale. hung in the church. High above, near the beam of the clerestory, a trapped bird fluttered, seeking an escape it would never find. Its small wings pounded the beam in a muffled frenzy, stirring dust that sprinkled lazily to the floor.
The door opened and a short, stout man entered the church, closing the door behind him. His walk was slow and practiced, as though in ceremony, causing his cape to flow with each step.
A long, straight nose jutted from below keen, dark eyes. His hair, black as night, fell past his shoulders, and the foreign bastard would probably be considered handsome by the ladies. Not that it mattered, Hungerford reminded himself. This rogue needed only to be properly inspired. And provoked.
The man bowed regally. “Good even, Lord Hungerford. I thank you for lending me your fine horse, and the escorts you sent. I came as quickly as I could.”
As he spoke the words, his breath fouled the air. Though faint, it smelled of death, musty and unhealthy. Lord Hungerford backed up to avoid it. “I appreciate your speed, and your discretion. You’ll find that both will be rewarded.” Hungerford gestured to the table he’d prepared with wine and cheeses. “May I offer you refreshments after your ride, Count Aydin?”
Chapter Fourteen
Hungerford propped his cane on the edge of his chair and engaged the Gypsy in pleasantries, waiting for the wine to hit his gut. He wanted him relaxed and impressionable, ready to consider possibilities.
He was a man of passion and pride, this short foreigner. Hungerford had found ample opportunity to observe him at the St. Giles’ Fair, when he settled a fight among five members of his tribe. He was quick on his feet, knew how to use those muscular legs of his, to say naught of his quick fists. He kept his people orderly, and with their ready collection of knives and whips, they were the type of men one would not want to offend.