by Janet Lane
Tabor summoned the courage to voice his next request. It could anger Gloucester and endanger the favorable decision Tabor had just won.
He must say it, must defy the rules of nobility. It was an unusual request, but it wasn’t as though the rules had never been bent. Still, once he spoke, he could not call the words back, and it if went downhill Tabor would have to live with Gloucester’s anger and decision.
He swallowed. “I wish to wed Sharai.”
Gloucester frowned. “You wish to wed a foreigner? From what family comes this Sharai?”
“She has no family.”
Gloucester’s eyes widened. “An orphan. You wish to wed a commoner.”
“She’s no ordinary commoner, sir. She reads and writes, and knows much of commerce with her association with St. Giles; she’s as capable as any merchant I’ve met. She could manage the details of a household.”
Tabor eased into the next field of thorns. “Lord Marmyl may have told you of sorcery, but ’tis not true.
The Duchess dropped the prayer beads. They landed with dull thumps on the floor.
Tabor glanced at the Duchess and continued. “Sharai dabbled in a love spell, but it was innocent. Wishful thinking, as she said, and she has promised to cook no more of such cakes.”
The Duchess stood and crossed the room, touching Tabor’s arm. “What kind of cakes did she make?” she asked.
“Cherry and walnut, Your Grace.”
She raised her thin eyebrows. “And?”
“She says ’tis much like our practice of using a chicken bone to make a wish and break it, hoping to hold the longer end.” He took a breath. “She added ground frog bones to the flour. It did not harm me,” he added hastily. “She meant only to make me love her. But as I told her, I loved her long before she made that cake.”
Eleanor’s eyes sparked with interest. “It seems that her love potion has worked quite well. Has she cast any other spells?”
“No spells, truly. She uses herbs for curative purposes. Her people healed me with them when I was seriously wounded during Hungerford’s siege on Coin Forest.” Tabor turned to Gloucester. “And that is all, every fact, I swear to you. Might you find to grant me license to—”
“No.” Gloucester folded his arms. “This request I must deny you. You are obviously too overwhelmed to think clearly, Tabor.”
“Exceptions have been made. Lord Cressener wed his buttery maid, and that was allowed. And Lord Rotherham—”
“Make her your mistress.”
“I have considered this carefully, sir. This would be acceptable, and Sharai would be safe, but only when I am with her. Should I leave to serve the crown, her security vanishes. The war with France continues. I want to fight for England when you call upon me to do so, and when I do, I want to leave Sharai in charge of my estates. I do not want to leave her to the whims of a wife whose jealousies could lead to mistreatment, banishment, of the woman I love and the children we will have.”
“I will find you a suitable wife who understands this.”
“I love Sharai. I will do whatever you wish, sir, but, please—”
“Cease. This Sharai is a foreigner, a commoner, and a sorceress. Have you taken leave of all your senses?”
Angered, Tabor forged ahead. “I’m neither daft nor wrong. Sharai is a woman, and I love her. Why can it be so right for you but wrong for me?” He strode to the stunned Duchess Eleanor, gesturing with an outstretched arm. “You loved this woman. She was your paramour for years.”
The duchess gasped. Gloucester had taken Eleanor, one of Jacqueline of Hainault’s ladies in waiting, as his mistress long before Gloucester’s first wedding was annulled.
“I mean no insult, Your Grace, just that you were a mistress, and you both loved each other and can understand the limitations and dangers of that position. You both know, yet you refuse to grant this simple request.”
Gloucester rose, his face red. “Lord Tabor—”
“She is Christian. She is bright and loving and good.”
“Cease.” Eyes narrowed, Gloucester signaled to the guards.
They closed in swiftly, pulling Tabor’s arms behind his back.
His nostrils flared, Gloucester approached Tabor. “In the future, Lord Tabor, rein your passions before taking audience with me. And speak no more of this foreigner. Is this sufficiently clear?”
Tabor’s heart raced. He turned to Eleanor.
“Madam, I meant no insult. What the two of you share is special. Please understand. I know you do.”
Gloucester linked Eleanor’s arm in his and turned away from him. “Our business is concluded.” He gestured to the guards. “Remove him.”
Chapter Sixteen
Outside, the misty rain cooled Tabor’s face. He walked the crowded Stall Street, past the cemetery.
From among the tombstones Sir Cyrill emerged. The tension in Cyrill’s face showed how tethered he was to the outcome of the meeting. “How was it?”
“It went well.”
Cyrill frowned. “Then why do you look like you lost all?”
Tabor sensed he was being followed and glanced behind.
The stranger Tabor had bumped into earlier at the King’s Palace walked slowly, about thirty paces behind them.
Coincidence? Mayhaps, but Tabor wasn’t taking any chances. He made a subtle tip of his head to Cyrill, and they turned left, taking a narrow road between graveyard sections. The high tombstones of long-departed monks and lords seemed to march past them as they walked. “Gloucester ruled in our favor. Coin Forest is no longer at risk.”
Cyrill eyes grew misty, and his grey mustache rose above a broad smile. “Splendid, my Lord Tabor.” He slapped Tabor soundly on the arm. “Well done. Well done!”
A hollow happiness churned in Tabor, much as it had in France when he had lost three knights in the battle but two had survived. He tried to smile, to stir enthusiasm to match Cyrill’s, but could muster none.
His mother would react this way, too, Tabor knew. She would dance in relief, as would the townspeople. Father Bernard would sagely nod, eyes twinkling. Sharai’s marvelous eyes would be wide with joy, and she would bound into his arms. She loved Coin Forest, and with this decision, she could stay.
Cyrill punched Tabor in the arm. “Be of good cheer, my lord. You’ve saved Coin Forest, using the very approach through which Hungerford tried to destroy you. You have won.” Cyrill’s smile faded. “What is it?”
Tabor summoned a smile. “Nothing. We have won.”
They returned to Stall Street. Just before the cathedral they reached the King’s Bath, the largest of the medicinal hot springs. Steam rose from the walls separating the baths from the dressing rooms. A sharp, metallic smell filled the air, along with the hint of an acrid odor that reminded Tabor of rotten eggs.
Cyrill rubbed the small of his back. “Ah. I’ll soak the cold out of these old bones.”
They stated their names and titles at the gate and gained entrance.
In the open-air dressing hall, some dozen men clustered, preparing to enter the baths. Monks circulated among the men, checking for inflamed glands in the groin, armpit, or neck.
One of them approached Tabor. “Have you been in London during the last fortnight?”
“Nay, but I’ve heard of the deaths.”
“Have you been experiencing any headaches, or sickness to the stomach?”
“Nay.” Tabor removed his collar, doublet, and hose, lifting his arms to make it easier for the monks to check him for early signs of plague. “Have you found any cases?” He avoided using the dark word, as if not voicing it might somehow keep its horrors from his door.
The monk offered a towel. “No. But we must be alert.”
The monk led them past the larger King’s Bath to the smaller Mill bath, closed from public view and reserved for royalty and nobility. Enclosed from the elements, Mill Bath offered comfortable seating and privacy under chambered arches.
Tabor selected a seat in the fart
hest corner and eased into the hot water. Streams of hot water flowed around his body, bubbling its mysterious blend of healing properties into his skin and lungs.
Cyrill settled in, groaning with pleasure, and moments passed. “What did Gloucester say?”
“That Sharai may be my mistress, but not my wife.”
Cyrill’s eyes widened. “You asked Gloucester for license to wed her?”
“Aye.”
“Sweet saints, Tabor. Why?”
“To spare her the indignity and dangers of being a mistress.” Tabor had never thought about the plight of mistresses, but with Sharai the customs seemed unfair and perilous. Mistresses were required to step aside while the wife socialized with the nobility. Sharai would need to sit at the low tables, subjugated, when in fact her faith was part of the reason he succeeded in saving Coin Forest. She deserved more.
“So her pride will suffer. ’Tis not too high a price to pay for love.”
“There are more serious problems. Look at Lady Emilyne’s reaction. She would have sent Sharai away. As my wife, she would have the power to do so.”
Cyrill laughed. “Against your will, Tabor? I doubt it. Some mistresses hold considerable power. Some of times more power than the wife. Look at Lord Drayton and his mistress.”
“Aye, but he’s too feeble to fight for the crown. He need not leave for battle. The biggest danger will be when I leave, for then, clearly, Lady Tabor, whoever she may be, can decide Sharai’s fate in my absence. She will be superior in church and legal instances.”
“So Sharai must learn her place. ’Tis not so bad. Better than living in a tent, eh?”
“She could be imprisoned, and our children sent away. This is not the security Sharai needs. Do you know what is so sad, Cyrill?”
“Frankly, no.”
“I cannot marry her. A penniless commoner can offer her more than I can.”
“It’s the way of the world, my lord. Some things you can change, some you cannot.”
Silence fell between them. Tabor watched the steam rise, lifting from the water’s surface, thinning, then disappearing, along with his hopes.
What choices did he have? Unlike Gloucester, Tabor could not bend the law to suit him. If he defied Gloucester, he would, in effect, turn tenancy of Coin Forest back to the crown and face imprisonment.
He thought of Sharai, her eyes full of hope. He had fulfilled his duty to his family and Coin Forest, and for that he was grateful, but, in what mattered most to him, he had failed.
* * * * *
Lord Hungerford entered the stables, where his favored messenger, George, waited, holding the reins to Shaker’s brother, Saran.
Hungerford patted the Arabian, stroking his white, feather-groomed mane. Saran was a magnificent champion, and Hungerford wasn’t about to let the seedy Gypsy have him. But he would send him to London to retain the appearance of good faith, just in case the Gypsy had spies. “You’re ready to travel, then?”
George shifted weight on his long legs, and his Adam’s apple bobbed on his skinny neck when he swallowed. “Aye, my lord. I’ll take the horse and these papers to your London house. Once there, I’ll deliver the letter to your seneschal and wait for further instructions.”
Hungerford nodded. The letter outlined his instructions to hire dancers and jongleurs for a party. He slapped George’s bony shoulders in affection. He was a good son, better than Rauf, really. A pity he was a bastard, his mother a long-ago chambermaid to his wife, rest her soul. “Go you now with the horses and men to the field house, two miles north. Depart from there an hour before first light on the morrow. Quietly.” He did not want George and his party waking Rauf.
George led the stallion away.
Hungerford admired Saran’s spirited gait. This would go smoothly. He knew his legal proof was murky, that his chances of ousting Tabor were slim, so Hungerford schemed over an expanded plan. The hired knights with Aydin would keep him informed of the count’s progress, and, if the sneaky little man tried to break their agreement any time after he collected Sharai, they were instructed to kill him. The hired knights knew to take only one specific route from Coin Forest to London, one on which Hungerford had planted reinforcements at intervals along the way to surprise Lord Tabor as he pursued her.
If Tabor died, his death would appear to have come at the hand of a Gypsy, angered that Tabor would try to steal his woman from her tribe. And if Tabor survived all obstacles on the way to London, Hungerford had plans for him there, too.
All this was possible because Tabor had been dull enough to refuse Lady Emilyne. But who would have thought Tabor would anger Lord Marmyl—an earl—over a Gypsy woman? Hungerford shook his head with a smile, appreciating his good fortune.
* * * * *
Count Aydin and his men cleared the hill, and Coin Forest Castle came into view. The fields were ripe with grain, flax, and beans, still wet from the fitful light rains that fell from a mixed sky. The small castle shone golden in a shaft of afternoon sun, a jewel in the broad meadow, surrounded by gently rolling, forested hills.
Sir Geoffrey, a grizzled man of his late thirties, had assumed the role of spokesman for the muscled bunch of knights Hungerford had lent him. He halted his horse next to Aydin and whistled softly. “Impressive.”
Aye, Aydin thought. Sharai has been living in comfort. No wonder she’d scorned his new wagon. Aydin gave a short laugh in response to Geoffrey’s admiration. “Land husbandry is fine work if it amuses you to watch grass grow.”
They traveled on a path that ran adjacent to a thick hedgerow, on the other side of which a sizeable herd of sheep grazed. Aydin eyed the full shanks and legs, thinking of feasts for his tribe, and then grew embarrassed at his thoughts. He was entering Coin Forest with a fine retinue of knights, not limping in with timeworn wagons behind him. He would not steal from Tabor. He could procure a lamb anywhere, and Sharai was his, not Tabor’s.
He thought of her lovely breasts, the silken smoothness of her skin, the demure cast of her eyes. He shifted in his saddle, hungry for the sight of her, for a slim, ragged hope still lingered that the ugly rumors were not true. Sir Geoffrey angled his horse to the right. “Follow this path to the left so we can enter more on the village side, out of view of their watchtower.”
Aydin hesitated. He wanted to ride in with his knights in full view. He wanted the horns to be sounded, needed Sharai to see him approaching with fine horses and well-equipped, armored men at his command. He sat straight in the saddle, assuming an air of authority. Geoffrey may lead the other knights, but Count Aydin led the party. “I would approach in full view, not like some thief.”
Geoffrey hesitated, glanced toward the castle and reigned his horse toward Aydin. “’Tis better, I agree.”
“Do you own such property as this in Little Egypt?”
"Larger." Aydin had told Geoffrey the standard tale, crafted to draw sympathy and support from the Christian nobility. Aydin was, like them, a nobleman, traveling on pilgrimage for seven years by order of the pope. “I miss it dearly, but can’t return for two more summers. We leave for the continent soon, and I dread the trip. The weather at Dover is most unpredictable, and many of my people become ill making the crossing.” Aydin had been one of the few Gypsies brave enough to take that journey, and he made it a point to keep England’s hospitality a secret to any Gypsies in France who might follow him over should he brag. The fewer Gypsies here, the more opportunity and coin for him.
Unlike the French, the English made his people welcome, even gave them alms.
Several hundred yards in front of the village, Geoffrey dismounted under an old oak tree and spread a map on his horse’s back.
Aydin dismounted and held one end of the parchment. A map of the castle.
The others joined him.
Sir Geoffrey pointed to the center of the map. “Here’s the main entrance. Munitions here, guard tower, another guard tower. Here to the left, a secret tunnel leading from the armory to just past the church. It collap
sed from rainfall last year but has recently been repaired. It lets out here, by the church.”
Aydin studied the complicated sketch. “Impressive detail.”
“Hungerford is quite familiar with Coin Forest," Geoffrey said. "Rauf was born here.”
“How can that be? He’s Tabor’s enemy,” Aydin said.
“The Hungerford family owned the castle at one time.” Geoffrey said. “But the king giveth, and the king taketh away.”
The knights shared smug smiles, likely amused to hear of a nobleman’s frustrated fortune.
“And the king gave it to Tabor’s family, the Ellinghams,” Geoffrey said.
“Why,” Aydin asked.
“Because the king said so.” The shorter knight nudged Aydin in the ribs. “I hear you’re a king in Little Egypt, so you know how these land grants go, don’t you, your majesty?”
The knights laughed.
Aydin glared at the shorter knight.
Geoffrey noticed. “All right. That’s enough. Point is, there are no secrets in this castle.”
Aydin shrugged off their teasing. He would tend to his business. The castle may hold no secrets, but Aydin did. Notwithstanding the tempting Arabian horse or the foolish lord’s ring, once he gained possession of Sharai, he would not be letting her go again.
Aydin and his knights entered the village, passed the large market area now quiet in the early evening. People cast Aydin looks of curiosity and respect. These peasants knew the significance of the fine destrier and the well-armored men who rode with him. Pleasant, well-fed villagers, not emaciated like some he’d seen in France, devastated by the war.
But that war meant no more than the feud between Tabor and the Hungerfords, except where it served his purpose, and Hungerford had certainly done that, enabling him to rescue Sharai.
Guards in the watchtower sounded their horns and Sir Geoffrey, riding just ahead, answered. Aydin sat tall, thrusting his chest out and adjusting his cloak so it flowed smoothly over the saddle. He was within yards of Sharai now, and his pulse quickened. She was skittish but could be softened with the right words. He would claim her before the Gorgio Tabor did.