by Janet Lane
He coughed again and raised his chin, his eyes questioning. “What?” His deep voice clashed against the stone walls, startling her.
“I came to thank you.”
“For what?”
“Saving my life.” She looked for a place to sit and found only the fireplace hearth, black with soot and charred wood, so she remained standing. “To your detriment.” She waved a hand, indicating the gaol.
“Indeed. And now you have thanked me, you may leave.”
His words slapped her. “You needn’t be so short.”
“I don’t relish your company. The last time I was in it I almost died, and now I most certainly will.”
Echoes of her conversations with Stephen and Maud reminded her of his plight. He was hated, his life threatened. “I did not cause your predicament,” she said. “Look you at your collar and the color of your rose. You brought this on yourself by taking arms against your king.”
He splayed his hands in front of her in protest. “I have never raised arms against Henry.”
She noted his hands, free of callouses with long graceful fingers, more like those of an artist than a knight or a builder. “You don’t look like a bridge builder. What do you do?”
“I have no issue with the king,” he said, ignoring her question. “York has no issue with the king, either.”
“You oppose the Queen. It’s the same thing.”
“Hardly. Given the choice of the throne or England’s safety, she has chosen the throne. She will cause England’s downfall, mark my words.”
Joya’s straightened. Margaret was hated by many, cursed for being French and for her admirable strength and determination to save the throne for her son, what any good mother would do. “The prince is the legitimate heir. What you’re doing is treason.”
He turned away. “You’ve thanked me, condemned me. Now leave.”
“That’s it? I disagree so you dismiss me?”
“I dismiss you because you are not the cleverest of girls. In fact, you are quite dim-witted.”
Heat flashed up her neck. “What?” He had stripped her of her defenses, seen straight through to her failings. Of a sudden she was that hopeless child back in the dreary chambers of the abbey, the girl who couldn’t learn, who struggled against the scorn of Mother Issabell and the sharp sting of her willow rod. She regarded his blue-eyed arrogance. Would that she could choke him with his chains.
He turned to face her. “Only a simpleton would throw herself into the river when her hands are bound.”
She wanted to strike back, but struggled instead to catch her breath. “How dare you.”
“Only a dolt would fail at escape and later ask her captor to help her.”
“You vile man. You were the only person there. You would have me drown, waiting for a friendly face?”
He leaned toward her. “Your judgment today was highly suspect, so if you think you can convince me that the Queen cares a whit about England, save your breath.” Impassioned, he stood and swung his fist in the air. “I’m a knave. Enemy to the king and the church and all that is good. I’m in chains and you’re safe. Now go.” He turned his back to her and sat facing the wall.
Anger flashed its way up to her ears. “I don’t like being called stupid.” She knew she was, had lived in shame ever since Mother Issabel’s public proclamation of it, and his flagrant affirmation of it was cruel. “You got yourself in this fix and you have the gall to blame me. And I was stupid, yes, stupid to come here and thank you for anything. And to think I brought a poultice for your wounds.” She tossed it into the rushes. “They all hate you here, and yet I bothered to check on you. My brother would have you killed, too. Well.” She reached speechlessness for a moment and another wave of anger overcame her. “You can rot in here. They can draw and quarter you as Maud says. There, see? I’m getting smarter.”
He didn’t respond, waited for her to leave. But how could she? She had come to save him. Damnation!
She wanted to thrash him, as so many others did, but they hadn’t seen him rescue her, hadn’t felt the surging relief and gratitude when, after her skirts had yanked her under the water, he had pulled her back onto the log. And now, curse him, something in the stiffness of his back, in the rigid set to his shoulders spoke to her. It was as if he had thrown a curtain of anger between them, and now it fell in a disheveled heap, revealing his position, his peril.
She felt a pull to him, and reached past her anger and his arrogance. She touched his shoulder, hoping to comfort him. “I came to help.”
He took her hand, his touch warm. His nails were well groomed, his skin soft next to hers, and the connection overwhelmed her.
He turned and stood, chains clanking.
Startled, she withdrew her hand.
He took her in his arms, his blue eyes dark, dangerous. His jacket carried the scent of the river, green and sweet with damp hints of fish. Abandoning modesty she pressed against his chest, relishing his heat and nearness.
He raised her chin and covered her mouth with his. He crushed her to him, one hand behind her neck, the other at her back. It was an assault, as if his emotions had been chained, too, and were suddenly loosed.
She gasped and returned the kiss. Her passion, long buried, erupted with an urgency she had never before experienced. She swam in the fluid passion of the kiss, welcoming the heat of the depths, clinging to him as much as he clung to her.
A creaking noise sounded.
Luke tensed suddenly and ended the embrace.
The sensuous fog slipped away.
“Joya.” A masculine voice barked.
Martin stood in the doorway, scowling and clutching his club.
What madness had possessed her? Her hands fluttered of their own will, tidying the folds of her gown. “Godspeed,” she said to Luke, unable to meet his eyes. She dragged her feet one in front of the other and followed Martin out the door.
Martin slammed the door and homed the bolt, leaving Luke framed in the small barred window.
“May God return you to your senses.” Martin said no more, but his widened eyes spoke of shock, disapproval, warning.
She turned. “It’s not what you think,” she whispered.
Martin nodded deferentially. “Of course it’s not.” Still his voice held a dark edge.
“This has been a trying day,” she said.
“You almost met your death,” he said. “And it’s because of that man in there, I remind you.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” she lied. “But I have reason to believe Penry can be turned to the queen’s side.”
“Like that?” Martin tipped his head in the direction of Lord Penry, skepticism pinching his features.
“Please say nothing of this to my father.”
“I’ll not risk my position to abet a traitor.” He returned to his post, giving her a pointed look. “Nor should you.”
* * *
Joya walked past the parish church in Ilchester, looking for her friends. She and her father had arrived after the egg toss, missing most of the games. Such things meant little to her this night. Her life had become littered with uncertainty. She stayed her distraction to check on her musicians. The time for stories and poetry had passed and now red ribbons fluttered on the sign post, signaling the musicians to play drums and tambors and gitterns, lively carols for dancing. All was in order. Her father had finally left her side, and Joya made her way to the main green in the gold cast of daylight’s final rays.
She found Pru and Camilla by the dancers. Camilla fluttered her hands and giggled, a change from her usual brash and cool manner. George, Lord Minton, stood by her. Tall and broad-shouldered, George often won in the lists and was usually the first one picked for football teams. Camilla’s favorite. He greeted Joya and leaned down, whispering something that made Camilla giggle again. Hand in hand they left for the dance circle. Pru stood at her usual crooked angle, arms folded across her chest in spite of the hot fire, and she rolled her eyes. “She acts like a loon
when George is around.” Her words struck home for Joya. Hadn’t she herself been acting like a person possessed, throwing herself at Luke? She did unthinkable things, thought outrageous thoughts when in his presence.
Pru regarded Joya. “What’s wrong?”
Joya felt exposed. “What do you mean?”
Pru tilted her head. “You had the strangest expression just now. And where’s Father Jeffrye? If he sees you here by the dancers he’ll haul you home again.”
“He’s such a cranky rooster,” Joya said. “He’s stuck in his church back home. My father put him to work with illuminations, thanks be. He can punish the parchment instead of me.”
“Well. While the cat’s away, let’s play.” Pru guided her past the ale barrels to the small enclosure tended by Ilchester guards. “Try my uncle’s strawberry mead,” Pru said. “It has a staggering kick.”
Joya unclipped her flagon and handed it to her and Pru returned it, filled with the fragrant drink of honey and fruit. Joya took a sip, and it was as if she swallowed a sweet shot of fire. “Whoo, that is strong, and flavorful.”
They left the bar and stopped to watch the dancers. “To spring.” Joya raised her bottle.
“And love.” Pru tapped her bottle against Joya’s, the metal clanging. “Methinks I know who will escort Camilla in the woods on the morrow.” She turned to Joya. “But poor you.” She gave Joya’s arm a gentle squeeze. “Guess you’ll be a-maying with me since your man is stuck in gaol.”
“He’s not my man,” Joya said. “And he’s no longer in gaol.”
Camilla returned from the dance circle. “What? Did the handsome spy escape?”
“I reminded my father that he is a nobleman, after all. He agreed to give him run of the west tower. It’s heavily guarded.”
“Mmm, this works well for our plans.” Camilla took Joya’s flagon and drank heartily of the mead. “Sorry, I’m thirsty. All that dancing. Say, this is really good.” She drank the rest and handed Joya the empty jug.
“So, tell,” Pru said. “Did George ask you? About tomorrow, a-maying.”
Camilla smiled broadly, all sign of her giggles gone. “What do you think?”
They laughed.
“Ladies, I need a word with you.” Joya led Camilla and Pru to the west side of the church, where a less populated bonfire roared. They settled on a bench near the rectory. After a quick look to be sure there were no eager ears near, Joya lowered her voice. “I saw him.”
“Ooh.” The firelight danced in Camilla’s eyes. “Tell us. Tell us all!”
Joya revealed what Luke had said to her, his anger at her for throwing herself in the river. His rudeness, how he ordered her to leave. She omitted the part where he called her a dim-witted dolt. That was the last thing she wanted her friends to think of her.
Pru’s mouth twisted. “He sounds awful.”
“He’s upset,” Joya said. “Who wouldn’t be? He’s in chains and faces death. I did want to throttle him, though.”
“So you left him to stew in his own juice? I would,” Camilla said.
“There’s more.” Joya needed to make sense of what had happened in that gaol, and between Camilla’s sensibility and Pru’s sensitivity, they might be able to help her understand what had happened. She told them about their embrace.
Pru’s hand flew to her neck. “Sweet souls,” Camilla said. “How was it? The kiss, I mean.”
Joya trusted them, but had a hard time finding the words. She could say it was a shock, which it had been. She could say it made her feel more alive than she had ever felt before, as if she were floating, falling through the air—that flutter before landing onto a soft mound of hay. But all that sounded like a giddy minstrel’s song. She could be honest and admit that Luke’s kiss had set her on fire, that she had never felt such intense feelings with Giles. And how realization of that had brought a deep shame.
“Come on,” Camilla demanded. “Tell us.”
“I could not pull away.”
“More,” Cam demanded.
“It was …fierce.” She gestured to the bonfire. “Hotter than that.”
“Ooh. And?” Pru asked.
“I didn’t want it to end.” Joya took a deep breath and let it out. “Ever.”
“Sounds wonderful,” Pru said.
“So why do you look so miserable?” Camilla said.
“Because of who he is.” She fingered the ring on her necklace. “He’s not Giles. He was my only one. I felt comfortable with him. With Luke I feel…” Joya struggled for the word. Threatened? Out of balance? “Tense.”
“Giles is gone,” Pru said gently.
“Besides, Luke is old,” Joya said.
“Mature. And a nobleman,” said Camilla.
“Dangerous.” Joya picked at her purse string.
“Exciting,” Pru countered.
“He’s a condemned traitor.”
“Nothing you can’t handle,” Camilla said. “Remember the plan. Convince him his loyalties are ill-placed.”
“But his opinions are cast in stone. You should hear him.”
Camilla laughed. “It was only one kiss. See how he feels after three.”
What had first seemed to be a good idea—entice him to return to Margaret’s fold—now seemed cumbersome and ill-planned. Still, he had revealed his honor in the river. He had sacrificed his freedom to save her. “What if I fail?”
“You won’t.” Camilla put an arm around Pru and the other around Joya. “You have us.”
Joya freed herself. “Do you know what my father would do if he knew we had kissed?” Joya released a shuddering sigh. “He made me promise I would not see him.”
Camilla gave a sly smile. “Well, we know how far that will go.”
“No. You don’t understand. I have never lied to my father. Never! Now I’ve promised him, I can’t see Luke.”
“Verily.” Camilla’s voice lilted and she and Pru laughed.
Joya turned away, letting the fire warm her right side. Her friends could be glib because it wasn’t their father they were discussing. And they were different. Camilla had a toughness about her, an independence that shielded her from the sting of displeasure, that needling pain that came when she disappointed her parents. Pru had to shed some of her shyness or she would never experience such passion in the first place. And Pru always did as she was told.
What Joya’s father thought of her mattered. He could always be relied upon to favor her—provided she did not overstep the boundaries of behavior he deemed acceptable. It had been easy to navigate while she was a little girl. As she grew into a woman, though, that boundary began to shrink, to become more and more confining. She learned, in embarrassing moments of reprimand, not to shout her opinions on matters of court. And he valued loyalty. Joya would never defy her father, for that would break the gentle thread of his favor. “I will not see Luke again.”
“Good even, ladies.” A male voice sounded behind them, and Martin, the stout gaol guard, approached.
Joya’s stomach fell, and she spilled what was left of her mead. Had he seen her father? Told him?
He met Joya’s gaze with a deliberate one of his own. “I would have a word with you.”
“Of course, Martin,” she said. “And you may speak here, with my friends. We have no secrets.”
Chapter 5
Martin watched the girls scoot closer to each other on the rectory bench. Not what he needed tonight, he thought ruefully, the daunting task of talking sense into not one but three women. He turned to Joya. “You are treading on dangerous ground here.” Martin spoke with urgency, but remained respectful. Joya was a noblewoman, a God-fearing maid, and his late friend Giles’ fiancée. Her ordeal at the river had unsettled her, or she would never have behaved with such disgrace. Her father would handle Lord Penry, in a way that pleased the queen.
Had Tabor seen his daughter’s lewd passion with York’s spy … Martin shuddered. “You persuaded your father to release him. I have no choice but to tell him what
you did. He needs to know what transpired in gaol.”
“You will not.” Joya’s voice wavered, revealing her fear.
Martin had second thoughts. Maybe he could harness that fear to keep her away from Lord Penry. But Martin couldn’t watch her every move. No. You must look out for Tabor. Get Joya under control and put Penry back in chains.
The arrogant bastard. Taking advantage of Tabor’s kindness when the garrison would prefer to hang him. Over fifty Coin Forest men had perished at Blore Heath, among them Giles, and Martin’s own father. The few survivors had told of the heinous cruelty Salisbury and his men had wrought on the queen’s troops. Penry deserved to die.
But Joya had intervened and now the knave had run of the west tower, free to gather more information to use against Margaret.
Small fingers encircled his forearm. “Martin.”
He looked squarely into the eyes of Prudence Meaker. Prettiest girl of the three, her hair the color of fresh-cut oak, curled around the ribbons of her coronet, her brown eyes wide-set, shining in good health. She always carried herself with her arms to her breasts, a manner most called peculiar, but it charmed Martin, who likened the posture to that of a small bird protecting her treasures. Dainty Prudence, who never broke into conversations like a thoughtless bull, as Camilla did. No, Prudence always arrived on a soft breeze, as she did now, her touch like a whisper on his arm. “I must have a word with you,” she said.
She led him several yards from the fire. “You are a fine-looking man,” she said boldly. Even as she uttered the words, a crimson crept up her neck, flushing her skin. Her cheeks glowed in the soft light of sunset.
He struck his ear, testing it. He couldn’t be hearing correctly. Prudence, always shy, quiet, being so bold.
“You are stronger than most men, but you control your temper. There’s honor in that. Lord Penry is sour and disagreeable, I’ve heard. Not much to like about the fellow.”
