Crimson Secret

by Janet Lane

  “William has always known. But this is about more than your comfort, or mine,” Luke said. “Have you ever had a cause, Chris? I mean, a cause higher than your next tournament, or which ladies’ skirts you’ll raise?”

  Luke walked around the end of the table, stopping in front of Humfrye and Hugh. “How about a cause that benefited more than yourself, Humfrye? And Hugh, how about a cause that required work? And sacrifice? Not because your king or your clergy or your family think you should, but because you know, deep in your heart, that it’s the right thing? Don’t try to pretend to know what I’m thinking, because—”

  “By cause you’re clearly not thinking, Turtle.” Humfrye slapped Luke with the old pet name. “You can think things ten times over, and still never hit the target.”

  “Enough,” Christopher said. “We didn’t come to fight. We came to save our holdings.”

  “My holdings,” Luke corrected. “Mine. I’m heir to Penryton, not you,” he glared at his brothers in birth order. “Not you, and not you.”

  “Really, my Lord?” Chris had dropped the veneer of civility he’d raised for Tabor’s sake, and his face knotted into a sour expression. “Well, be stubborn like this and you won’t ever be returning to the head table, because your head—” He closed in on Luke and beat his forefinger on Luke’s chest at every other word, “will be rolling in the mud for treason.”

  Luke’s gut tightened and shadows of his childhood roared in his ears. He pushed his brother back. “Don’t touch me. Don’t ever touch me.”

  Chris’s eyes narrowed, but he retreated enough for Luke to breathe. He pulled a parchment from his cloak and thrust it in Luke’s face. “Here’s what your simple-minded thinking has brought you, brother.”

  Luke noted the seal of Henry VI, his name vivid in the wax.

  “Think you’re so clever, do you? You can read well enough, but let’s see if you can sort the meaning of the words. Read the title below this seal!”

  “I know the point of it. It’s Latin. Henry, by the grace of God, of the French and of England, King. But he didn’t send it.”

  “Are you blind? It’s his farking seal!”

  Luke leveled a gaze at him. “Margaret uses his seal. Like she uses his armies. And I see you’ve broken the seal. What a surprise.”

  “Sodding read it.”

  Luke unrolled the parchment. Despite his outer bravado, his hands went numb and he almost dropped the missive. The message revealed his brothers’ concerns.

  One thousand pounds. One thousand. The wretched queen was fining him one thousand pounds. An exorbitant sum. It would bankrupt him. He thought of York and Warwick—their cause, the importance of their task. He had taken it on with open eyes, knowing he was risking everything, but the numbers, written in the artistic flourish of an accomplished scrivener, stabbed his eyes with their sheer significance.

  “What say you now, brother?” As if Hugh had ever known the value of money, as if he had ever earned a shilling in his life. He raised his chin, priggish and satisfied.

  “Believe your eyes, you scut!” Humfrye shouted.

  “How in Hades will you pay this?” Chris’s face had turned red.

  From the corner of his eye Luke saw a flash of long black hair and a tan dress. Joya. God’s nails. She was supposed to be at May Day celebrations.

  He turned his attention back to the parchment and regarded them. “It’s addressed to me. Private business which does not involve you. I will handle it as I may, and our time is done here. You may leave.”

  “So you can put your head on the block and forfeit our holdings? By hell, we will,” Chris shouted.

  Tabor had at some time entered the solar. “Listen to them, Luke. They’re your family. They’re here to help you.”

  “Indeed? Have you heard them offer funds to help pay the fine to save Penryton, where they all live? I appreciate your hospitality, Lord Tabor, but this is not your affair.”

  Like an overspent candle in the sun’s heat, Humfrye’s face had melted into a mask of pure contempt. “Turtle, Turtle,” he crooned.

  At hearing their demeaning pet name for him, Luke’s throat constricted. It would always be associated with dark terror. “Yes, you boot licker?”

  Humfrye’s face darkened. “Turtle, you always get so confused. Nothing has changed. You’re neck-deep in trouble. You will pay her. You have no choice. After you do, we’ll not have funds for our horses this year, and we’ll scrape by to seed the fields, and because of you we’ll struggle to store the buttery for winter, but you’ll pay.”

  “And you’ll by God beg for Margaret’s forgiveness and help our family regain our position,” Chris stormed. “Or by my faith, you’ll see the bottom of that barrel again,” he grabbed Luke by the throat, “you pignut of a brother.”

  Fury filled Luke’s veins. He seized Chris’s thumb, jerking it back forcefully. He heard the snap.

  Chris cried out in pain and released him.

  Luke drew a fist and struck him in the jaw. Seeing him fall felt exceptionally fine.

  “God’s blood, Turtle!” Humfrye intervened, eyes wide. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Not a thing.” Luke struggled to get the words out. “At least I have the ballocks to act on what I believe.”

  “Pigeon shit.” Chris choked out the words past the pain, holding his thumb. “You only support your own selfish needs.”

  Luke’s heart was racing, and his blood itched to strike him again, and again, and again. “Don’t call me Turtle,” he growled at Chris. “I’ll kill you the next time.” He wiped the blood from his hand, shaking out the sting.

  Luke noticed the shock on his host’s face. “My apologies, Lord Tabor. We’re not on good terms.” He regarded his brothers. “You’ve had your say. Now get out.”

  “I’m sorry, Lord Tabor.” Chris wiped the blood from his chin as he left. “We only wanted to help.”

  Humfrye approached cautiously. “You must save Penryton, Luke. If she takes it back, she wins. You lose.”

  Hugh touched his arm, his expression disturbingly grave. “You’ll lose everything.”

  * * *

  After Luke left, Joya’s father caught up with her on the stairs. “It’s good you saw him like this,” he said, his mouth thinned as he shook his head. “In case you still harbor any interest in him.”

  Joya held a hand to her breast, still startled by what she had just witnessed. Unable to endure the May Day festivities, she had returned from Ilchester and followed the angry voices up to the solar, only to witness the explosive violence of the man with the piercing blue eyes.

  “You must keep in mind that he is the enemy,” her father said. Studying her face, his eyes softened. He brushed errant strands of hair from her face, tucking them behind her ear. His hug calmed her, though it was delivered with hesitance and an awkwardness that had come between them since she had grown into a woman. Joya wished for that moment she could return to the little girl she once was, greedy for his bear hugs and the tickling fall of her stomach when he tossed her in the air until she squealed with delight.

  Joya rested her head on his chest.

  “Daughter.” It was all he said, his voice rough with emotion. He tapped her nose and gave her a crooked smile, shaking his head in masculine dismissal as he left the solar.

  Feeling the weight of his disapproval, she walked the length of the solar, where Ellingtons of the past roosted in their heavy frames, forever locked behind their dusty portals. She approached a rendering of a tall, stout man with a thick, black mustache, the grandfather she had never known. Carston Ellington, killed when Joya’s father was about her age. He frowned down at her as if disapproving of her, as he had disapproved of her father. What a sad tradition they shared.

  Her father’s older brother, William, sat in the next frame. He had died along with Carston during the siege. Their father had favored William. Perhaps Joya’s father had forgotten how it hurt to be a disappointment to one’s parent. Perhaps he failed to no
tice the pain in her eyes when he was short with her, when he didn’t understand how difficult the choices could be. Had he ever been young and uncertain or had he breezed past all of life’s obstacles?

  He had communicated his hopes for her many times. Marry a respectable man, comport herself as a lady, draw no negative attention to their family, and serve Queen Margaret with unquestionable loyalty in all cases.

  His expectations had never concerned her. Until now.

  She walked to the window, chilled from the night and now bearded with condensation. The room burned from the tension and discord.

  After the argument, Luke had stormed off toward Steven’s chamber, and his brothers had settled belowstairs in the great hall, their conversations dark and muffled.

  Luke hadn’t noticed her. Joya picked at the pills clinging to the old fabric of her gown. She hadn’t known him long, but they had come close to death in that river. That, she thought, revealed much about a person.

  He had shown no violence toward her when he stole her from the hunting party, only urgency and grim determination. And only concern when she had stupidly thrown herself in the river. It would have been understandable if he had become angry when he had been rewarded for saving her life by being chained in the gaol, but he had remained stoic. Resigned to die.

  The man she saw with his brothers was a different person.

  “I’ll kill you,” he had threatened to the very brother who had traveled forty miles to help him.

  She retreated to her chamber with a niggling sensation of having missed something, some snippet of conversation that might explain his sudden fury at his own kin.

  * * *

  In her chamber, she collapsed on her bed and drifted into a sensuous dream.

  “Hold on. I’ll get us to shore.” Luke’s strong arms held her in the churning water, and she felt his stubbled jaw on her neck. His muscles tensed against her back as he anchored her to the large driftwood.

  She struggled against the purse strings that bound her hands, unable to break free. His arms created a cocoon of safety, easing her panic.

  With the magical swirl of dreams, the river water vanished and a field of early spring daisies and clover tickled her toes through her sandals, fragrant and warm against the awakening earth. She and Luke were in the woods outside Ilchester, walking together. All around them, laughter and intimate conversations floated through the air as other couples combed the woods, searching for the maypole tree.

  With a hand to her waist he pulled her closer and nuzzled her neck, sending tingles of excitement to her breasts. She drew a breath and pulled him down for a deep kiss that caused ripples of desire.

  He pointed to a tall, symmetrical tree with a gently tapering trunk, taller than Father Thomas’s tithing barn and straight as Fosse’s Way. “There it is,” Luke said. “We found the Maypole.”

  They threaded their way through the ribbons, and his hands held her waist. He led her in a graceful dance, wrapping her in a yellow ribbon, her favorite color. His eyes, blue as a day’s end sky, were heavily lidded with desire, and she answered the invitation in his eyes, surrendering to his beribboned web.

  He pulled her close, whispering in her ear. “I will follow you, Joya, but you must first love me.”

  She kissed him. He plunged his hands into her hair and undid her combs, and her hair fell onto his shoulders, black against his skin.

  They were nude, in bed, and he was stroking her breasts. Chains rattled, and she remembered his plight, and the chains disappeared. “Oh, Luke,” she sighed, kissing him again. “I love you already.”

  Their tongues danced, his mouth sweet, arousing. “I love you. I am yours.”

  “My little Angel. Joya.”

  Joya awoke to a familiar female voice. She saw a form before her, much shorter than Luke. Her eyes adjusted, and the form sharpened into a beautiful woman, her long, black hair bound, silver at the temples. She wore a blue travel cloak. Dark eyes watched her from under thick lashes, and a gentle smile revealed even, white teeth against her dark skin. She took up only a small portion of the bed, her body like that of a richly plumed bird, small but strong and hale.

  “Mother!” Joya threw her arms around her. I’ve missed you so. She traced her gently lined face, still comely at 47 summers. “I thought—”

  “I know. I should be with Nicole, and I cannot stay long, but I saw a sign. An omen.”

  Her mother read signs in the weather, the lakes, and any and all creatures. Spun from the strands of her Gypsy legacy, she had been known to cancel a trip if she witnessed a spider repairing its web. “What did you see, Mother?”

  “An owl, falling from the sky with no apparent injury, in full daylight. It landed in the bailey just after we received word of the Bonwyk brothers’ visit. Eyes wide, she shook her head. “It foretells disaster. I came to warn your father, but after what he told me about your behavior with Penry—I’m here to warn you.”

  Had she talked in her sleep? She hugged Sharai. “Is Nicole better?”

  “A little, but I have to get back to her. She’s so worried about the babe and the birthing. Though she knows better, the curse still haunts her dreams. But I had to see you, Ves’ Tacha.” Her mother pulled the covers from her. “And what are you wearing, today, day of days?” She pulled pills from the fabric on the sleeve. “This gown isn’t fit for the stables. Come. Let’s get you ready for supper.” She led her to the garderobe and studied the gowns hooked to the wall.

  Her mother pulled one at a time from the pegs, a blue gown, an orange one, a moss green with pleats. “Ah, this one.” She held up a gown the color of raspberries, smiling broadly. “Remember when we found this fabric?”

  Memories misted over Joya, warming her. She and her mother were so different. Joya couldn’t sew a straight stitch, and bless Sharai, she couldn’t sing harmony. Her mother preferred life within the walls of the castle, managing Coin Forest and Fritham as well as any steward, keeping track of supplies, food and wine stocks, all but field and crop cases. Joya loved the outdoors, hunting with her father, and travel, dances and parties and people. She wasn’t smart like her mother, so she enjoyed the more active, physical activities.

  They shared one great passion, though, and it drew them close. They both loved fashion. Sharai created the designs and nimbly sewed them. She and Joya relished the fabrics and shopping the fairs and markets for them. Between her mother, who dressed her fine as a princess, and her father, who savored the admiration those fashions drew, Joya could never be too pretty.

  “I remember,” Joya said. Hugging her through the deep red fabric. “Southampton.” Joya touched the delicate chain at the shoulders, the touch stirring sweet memories that gladdened her.

  Her mother helped her out of the worn gown and slipped the red damask over her head.

  Joya smoothed the skirt, admiring the deeper red swirls over the lighter red. “It’s beautiful.”

  Her mother attached and laced the sleeves. “I could not believe what happened to you hunting. How you let your guard down.”

  “I was careless,” Joya said. “Thank you for the dagger.”

  “We almost lost you, sweetling. And now this … this Lord Penry, and your … unseemly conduct with him.” She tilted her head to the side, as if trying to peer under the brim of a hat so she could better see Joya’s eyes. “Sneaking into his chamber, without escort? Eavesdropping on your father?”

  “I was waiting for them to finish so I could announce my arrival,” Joya began, knowing how feeble it sounded. An idea came to her and she saw her mother as an ally. At a young age, Sharai had been sweet on Lord Tabor. His mother refused to accept Sharai and arranged a marriage for Tabor with an earl’s daughter. Surely her mother would remember the agonies of love denied; she would convince her father to rescind his order to stay away from Luke.

  “You and Father had your struggles when you first met. You recall, Mother, how hard it was?”

  Her mother buttoned her lower sleeves snug to her wris
t. “That was different. You, my daughter, were caught in an embrace in the gaol. He plots with York. With Yorkists.” She repeated it, eyes widened.

  “I need to talk to him, get him to return to King Henry’s side. He has secrets, yes. If we can get him to tell Margaret what York plans, we can—”

  “He saved your life. You’re confusing valor with true affection.”

  “He’s a nobleman from a good family. He’s a bridge builder.”

  “He is a traitor.”

  “Father doesn’t believe we can change his mind. He doesn’t understand that it’s the man I care about, not his principles.”

  “Ah, but my sweet daughter, a man and his principles are one and the same. Do not forget this.”

  “I have good judgment; you’ve told me that many times, Mother. I sense that he’s a good man.”

  “And you would be able to judge this in the few hours you have shared with him?” She waved the thought away with her small hand and cupped Joya’s cheek. “You must visit the rainbow mist.”

  “Oh, Mother. That’s a child’s poem.”

  “It’s a spell. It strengthens your vision, child. Say it now.”

  Joya looked into the depths of her mother’s brown eyes, dark with an intensity that none of the other mothers in Somerset possessed. Her mother liked to say she didn’t create spells, but rather wished harder and more effectively than other people. Could it be that Joya had only to wish harder?

  Joya took a deep breath, released it and recited the rainbow spell her mother had taught her as a child.

  Deep in your soul you’ll find the hue

  Lively colors that lead you to

  Birdsong sweet and rose’s thorn

  With trials and truth you’ll be reborn

  “You must turn to it, Ves’ Tacha.”

  “I did. I saw the colors, but there’s this pain, this yearning.”

  “Colors? You saw them?”

  “This morn.” Joya had found the quiet, sensed the spirit, seen the soft green. “A distant flash.”