by Janet Lane
“God only knows you’ve always been curious.” Tabor’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve had my talk with Martin,” he said, his voice sharp. He turned from her. “Penry, you’re yet young. Impressionable. Your loyalties have been swayed by half-truths. There’s still time to save yourself. Help your king, your queen—”
“Margaret is what’s wrong with England. You’re blinded to it because she spared your son from the block.”
“Stay your tongue!” Joya blurted. Her brother had been wrongly accused of treason and spared by Margaret. Stephen was her hero, a fine man with a spotless reputation of honor. “He was innocent!” His humiliation and near death at Blore Heath—that and her deep respect for Giles dashed all affection for Luke. “How can you presume to know anything about Stephen? You didn’t fight at Blore Heath,” she guessed. “Where were you when five thousand good men died for our king?”
Her father held up a hand, silencing her, and turned to Luke. “Do not dare suggest that my son—”
“Is it not true?” Luke challenged. “Did she not spare Stephen from charges of treachery?”
“Yes, but—”
“So she spared him. But everyone knows Stephen was no traitor, was he?”
“No, he was not. All know of his loyalty. His integrity.” Her father’s eyes had grown dangerously dark.
“So she spared him, which cost her nothing, and gained your lifelong loyalty. Quite the self-enriching trade, wouldn’t you say? Margaret is loyal to nothing and no one but her own cause. We have no king. She is the one who has usurped the throne, not York.”
“Enough of this!” Tabor slammed the table, and chess pieces tumbled to the floor. “You seem bright, but sadly misinformed. You’re taking a treacherous path. King Henry is pious. Generous. He established the very college where you studied! He—”
“He’s infirm, Tabor. We need a king, not some Frenchwoman who cares naught for England, one who hires French mercenaries to kill our own people and pays them for their services by letting them raid our treasuries. Our queen,” he sneered the word past curled lips, “…convinced her addled husband to give away our lands—Normandy, and Burgundy fell because of her. She cares only to seat her son on the throne.” His eyes narrowed. “A son who may not even be the king’s issue!”
Joya gasped at the blasphemy. Oh, Margaret would have his head.
His profanities echoed in the solar, raining guilt on his shoulders. He seemed now to carry the pall of death. Gone was the spell of his blue eyes, and she saw him fading before her, his end imminent.
Luke shifted on the bench and gave Tabor a pointed look. “You will not sway me.”
The silence grew. Her father’s gaze remained fixed on Lord Penry.
“Then you will die, young Luke, for those are your choices. Die, or beg forgiveness. Pay Margaret the fine she’ll demand for your treachery. Join us. Help us defeat this threat to our king.”
“If she would but step down from the throne that is not hers – stop dragging the king from battlefield to battlefield, King Henry could rule when clear-headed. When not, York is willing to serve as Protector. When Henry dies, York would inherit, and we would have a strong –”
“I’ve heard enough.” Tabor leaned forward, the chess game forgotten. “Joya, you’ve seen with your own eyes that this man is our enemy. No amount of your charm is going to change his mind. Stay away from him.”
Luke turned to her, an expression of surprise and recognition in his eyes. “Ah, so it was a concerted manipulation.” He leveled a glowering look her way, lids dropped in an assessing gaze. “And methought you liked me.” He used outdated language to taunt her, his voice, low and edged with amused disdain. It cut through her feeble attempt to salvage dignity from the moment. Her heart sank.
“Penry.” Her father interrupted, shaking his head. “Your brothers have sent word. They’ve heard from the queen and they’re coming tomorrow. I’ll show them your plans. Mayhap they can open your eyes to the truth.”
Luke’s mocking smile faded, and in its place grew an expression of thinly disguised dread.
As he did so frequently, he turned away.
* * *
Dawn came in Ilchester, chasing the night shadows away and revealing hundreds of young men, clustered in small groups by the graveyard. Loud and boisterous, they taunted each other with predictions of who would find the perfect tree for the maypole, and wagered shillings on who, under the forest’s protective canopy, would steal a kiss from the maiden of their dreams.
Hovering near the church, the young women wore gowns of vivid reds and oranges, yellows and blues. Coronets and flowers peeked out from their braids and tresses, their eyes fresh as the spring air. They laughed softly in their groups, tossing their hair, their smiles coy, here and there an occasional sigh as they caught the eye of their favorite young man. A lift of their shoulders, a twirl of their skirts told of their interest in joining them for a walk in the forest to find the brightest flowers … and perhaps the perfect maypole.
Joya walked through the tall grass, brushing the morning moisture from the green blades, the dew running in small rivulets down her hands. She thought of tears and quickly chided herself for gloomy thoughts. Still, she could not summon any excitement for May Day. She looked down absently at her gown—she’d slipped into a tan gown, simple, a plain linen. It would do. She wouldn’t be dancing today. She wanted only to apologize to Pru and go home.
The heady scent of honeysuckle filled the air. Wispy clouds swirled in the pale blue sky like maiden’s hair loosed in the wind, and each secret smile and sensual, sideways glance between the men and women pierced her spirit. It reminded her of the way her mother and father had always been toward each other, sharing warm affection, united by an invisible thread of love in all they did. Joya had seen it when her father whispered in her mother’s ear, in her mother’s soft smile. She saw it between her brother, Stephen and his wife, Nicole, a flash of passion in her brother’s eye at Nicole’s touch.
Giles had stirred warmth in her, and a connection grew between them during their time together. No intense pleasures, though. She had hoped they would become so with time, but Giles had died before it could.
Now, like some evil punishment, Joya had felt this pleasure with the deceitful Yorkist. Why not with noble Giles, and why with the dishonorable Luke? It haunted her, the way he looked at her, the way his arms had held her, protected her in the river. The way he had crushed her to him, covering her mouth with his. Heady and intoxicating, it had made her yearn to enter that wondrous world, made her hope she could share such joys with him.
So foolish. He had led her into that breathless place, only to scorn her later and judge her stupid. He had dismissed her in her father’s presence with a cruel, sardonic smile and cold, distrustful eyes.
Now she saw only Luke’s self-destruction.
More girls passed, seeking their special man. She spotted Cam by the graveyard. She had shed her crusty exterior and given George a smile so gentle it lit her eyes and pinked her cheeks, something Joya had never seen from her coarse friend.
This should have been a pleasant day, a day of teasing both Cam and Pru about their affections toward George and Martin, a day when Cam and Pru would sing-song as they always did, and tease her about her softness toward Luke.
She had hoped he could be here. Had entertained rosy thoughts about flowers and embraces, hot kisses under the cool protection of the trees. Stupid. Foolish. As if her father would have released him from the castle. As if Martin would stop his campaign to keep them separated. As if those kisses, that passion they had shared in the gaol, were real.
It had only been real for her.
Now she hated him, an unrepentant traitor who would soon die, and deserved to. Her heart ached with the loss of that which she had never possessed, and bitterness that the man she found most attractive was no more than a sickness, a tainted fruit that would only make her ill.
From the graveyard fence, the knight Peter met her gaze,
his eyes full of hope. He started walking her way. She gave no thought to courtesy but spun on her heels and walked into the church. Surely there was some task for which she could volunteer to avoid him.
Inside, Joya spotted Pru in the north transept, stacking bread baskets. Seeing her, Pru froze, holding her basket mid-air. Her eyes lacked warmth, and she dropped her gaze and returned to her task.
“Why did you leave without me this morning?” Pru and Cam had hurried away from Coin Forest, not waiting for Joya to join them in the ride to Ilchester.
“I don’t crave your company of a sudden.”
“I’m sorry about Martin. Where is he? I’ll apologize to him, too, explain that it was me, and you tried to keep me away from Luke.”
“I haven’t seen him. He’s avoiding me, thanks to you. I doubt my word will ever hold water with him again.”
“Pru, I’m sorry.”
She was considerate enough to come close and whisper. “You left the safety of the hallway and entered his chamber in the middle of the night. What were you thinking?”
“I didn’t think. It’s hard to think with him. I—”
“You said you’d talk to Martin, and you didn’t. You left me to explain why I didn’t keep my word to him.”
“Where is he? I’ll tell him now.”
Pru crossed her arms and backed away. “Pray leave. Leave me alone!”
Cam joined them, her face still flushed. “What’s wrong?”
“She’s what’s wrong,” Pru said, her voice soft to avoid a scene, but cold. “I've disappointed Martin, and it’s her fault.”
“Yes, Joya, what was that about?” Cam asked. “Sneaking into Luke’s room? That’s not what we planned. What a dumb idea.”
Joya interpreted her criticism: you’re stupid. An echo of Luke’s appraisal. She blanched at the accusation. Albeit true, it stung, and anger flared. “I said I’m sorry.” She wagged her finger at them. “This was your idea, you know. I was clear on it; he’s a Yorkist, but no, you two goaded me into trying to get him to switch loyalties.” She glared at Pru. “Fine. I don’t care if you talk to me or not.”
Cam looked at her with fresh eyes. “Say, are you sick? This is May Day, and you're wearing that old gown? It’s pilled, and the hem is worn.”
Pru looked up, blinking. “And your hair!” She turned Joya to the side. “Did you comb the back?”
Joya self-consciously ran her fingers through the tangles in her hair. “I don’t care. I don’t care a whit. And you don’t have to pretend with me; you don’t care, either. You don’t care to know about last night. Martin’s version of it is more important than mine.” To her horror, Joya felt tears betray her. She brushed them away.
“What happened, Joya?” Pru’s voice had softened. “Come on. Let’s take a walk, away from curious eyes.” She gave a pointed glance at the musicians gathered nearby, who were staring.
Joya brushed her hand away. “I’ll try to mend it for you with Martin. But curse your plan about Luke. He’s determined to die. I hate him. Hate him. The sooner he dies, the better.”
“What did he say to you?” Cam asked.
Joya waved her away.
“Well, forget him." Cam tipped her head toward Peter, who lingered, painfully obvious, by the nave. “Now there’s someone who’s shown his loyalty to your father and the king his entire life.” She shrugged her shoulders and grinned. “Why not? He would crow with delight if you joined him to hunt for the maypole.”
She dared not glance Peter’s way. She knew the look he would have in his eyes—needy, desperate, fragile as a leaf, and if she showed any interest in him at all … she shuddered. “I'd rather not.” A vision of blue eyes assaulted her again, and she caged her face in her hands. “What’s wrong with me? I hate Luke. He’s arrogant and stubborn.” He thinks I’m stupid and now he thinks I’m cheap and manipulating. “But he’s still the only one I want to see.”
Chapter 7
From the narrow windows in the solar Luke had been observing all the morning activity in the bailey. The last few days had been trying—all the people, the prodding and snooping. The quiet of the solar was a welcome change.
Joya’s meddling friends had left early with several other people. The guard said they were headed to the parish church in Ilchester for May Day celebrations. Later, Joya had left with a large party, and the bailey had become quiet.
Morning became afternoon and Luke still stared, thinking how futile it would be to try an escape. The guard Martin was always watching him, his eyes cold, distrusting. Drawn from his thoughts by a commotion at the gate, Luke peered out the window of the solar and saw them. His three brothers, striding across the bailey with Lord Tabor.
Luke’s thoughts scattered like tadpoles. Pain, humiliation, fear, loss. His father’s and brother’s deaths had thrown his once-strong family into a state of confusion. He watched his surviving brothers approach.
Searching for a weapon, he found only a collection of fabrics in the corner, and they hadn't trusted him with a knife for his mid-day dinner. He clenched his teeth, fighting the urge to flee, a useless thought.
He centered the large table and positioned himself between the table and the window. The more distance between his brothers, the better.
“He must be in here.” They burst through the door, self-righteous and impatient.
First came Christopher. The frustrated third-born was barrel-chested, short and sturdy, a fine soldier, quick with the sword and brutal in battle. Humfrye came next, more like Luke, tall, muscular without brawn. Often vague with the truth, he spun schemes that offered the most benefit to him. Hugh entered last, the youngest, self-indulgent and lazy as the morning breeze, happy in whatever lap of luxury he encountered. Tabor would have a hard time getting Hugh to leave the comforts of Coin Forest.
The table served its purpose and Christopher stopped in front of it. “So.” He cocked his head and raised a brow. “Lucas. ‘Tis been a long time, brother.”
As children, Chris had been much larger and stronger than Luke. He had always used it to his advantage, humbling and frightening Luke as a young boy. The other brothers had found it amusing enough to add their own punches when they could. During his time at university, Luke had come to realize the extent of his vulnerability, all those years ago. Still, spiders of disgust and long-ago fear scrambled up Luke’s spine, remembering his brothers’ cruelty.
Though Luke had since caught up with his brother’s height and weight, Chris still postured with power and insolent challenge.
“Good morn.” Luke wouldn’t give them the honor of addressing them by name.
“You know why we’ve come,” Chris said. Humfrye and Hugh stood behind him, letting Chris speak for them.
“Tabor informed me,” Luke said.
Chris stood taller, making his broad chest larger. “Have you lost every kernel of sense you may have ever possessed?”
“Ah, the same old song,” Luke said, stretching a smile he knew would irritate his younger brother. “It’s as if no time has passed since last I saw you.”
Chris’s eyes narrowed. “We thought you were building bridges, gaining honor for the Bonwyk family. Instead you’ve been plotting against Henry. Bloody nails, Luke! Knights with no colors sneak about in the village. Spies, asking for you. Word travels. No one speaks to us at parish, and I’ve not received an invite to tourney for six months.”
Luke hooked a thumb on his girdle. His disgust leaked out in his stiff smile, but he cared not. “You’ve always been most concerned about your standing.”
“Hell’s torture, yes!” His brother said. “What is a man without good standing? Not that you care. You’re willing to toss it in the fire, along with us.”
“You send no word to us, only to William on matters of husbandry,” Hugh whined. “William controls the treasury since you left. We can’t buy supplies, food.”
“It appears you haven’t missed a meal recently,” Luke countered, giving a pointed gaze at Hugh’s stomach
. “What’s amiss? Wine cellar running low? Or did you already drink it dry?”
The Bonwyks had been like any other noble family, possessed of good lands and titled. Philip stayed at Penryton while their father prepared him for the duties inherent with his eventual title. Luke and Christopher followed their own interests. Christopher has chosen the excitement of competition at tournaments, and Luke had left to study under the master bridge builders in London. As their mother faded away from a lingering illness, the walls of Penryton swallowed Humfrye and Hugh, and they had never found interests beyond the manor.
Then Philip and their father died and left the Bonwyks splintered. Philip, first-born and heir, lost his title at the grave. In an instant, Luke had leap-frogged from second born son into the title. By that time, Luke had grown a thick, defensive skin and had no use for his brothers. Bridge-building became not only satisfying but a good excuse to avoid them.
Chris glanced at Tabor and shook his head. “We’ve come all this way to help you.”
“Why bother,” Hugh said. “He never could think beyond his rivers and models.”
“Father would rise from the dead if he knew what you’re doing. Have you no shred of honor left?” Chris asked.
Luke laughed. He’d once wilted before them, but he’d been through so much since leaving Penryton. The pointed insults no longer stung. It was as if a curtain had been raised and he could see through all their threats and smoke screens.
“Those messenger pigeons fly both ways,” Luke said. “You’ve been perfectly content living off my land. Have you once tried to contact me?”
Luke had maintained frequent contact with his steward, William, tending to the details of manor management. “William tells me you were quite comfortable demanding more funds, but not once have you questioned him about my safety or well-being.”
“And where were we to send our notes of concern? We didn’t know where you were.”
