by Janet Lane
“Nay. Like I said, Luke keeps to himself.”
The rector’s smile was genuine, and he didn’t seem to be hiding anything, so she proceeded. “I thought I might stop at the guardhouse and see if anyone knows where Lord Penry might be. Who’s manning the guard house today, do you know?”
“George Anter or Thomas Brooks, one or the other. If it be George, tell him I haven’t seen him for Vespers in several days.”
At the guardhouse, Joya found an appropriately chastised George who had been missing Vespers. George had been given a large face, but his eyes, nose and mouth had not been informed, so his features seemed concentrated, a small hub on a large wheel. Those features were lively, though, animated eyes, bobbing eyebrows and mouth busy with information.
Luke’s father, George said, enjoyed great wealth. He had inherited the massive estate, but was a poor manager of funds. George was still gossiping when she bid him good day with a wave and quietly shut the guardhouse door.
The Redstone changing house was quite the opposite in atmosphere. Once she passed the scrutiny of several guards, she was brought to James Swift. James was so tall and thin that a good wind would probably push him off the bridge. But he was professional, whisking her into a private money changing room, prepared to receive a new deposit or change funds for her.
When her conversation changed to inquiries about Luke, James backed away from her physically, stiff and alert. “I do not discuss the business of others.”
“I respect you for that. When I transfer my funds from Coin Forest, I will expect that of you, too,” Joya said. After the turmoil she had caused her father, she suspected that her funds would consist of what she currently carried on her person, but she assumed what she thought would communicate an aura of wealth and concern for it.
“I am heavily invested in Lord Penry’s activities,” she said. That investment was strictly from the heart, although she could stretch the truth by including the loan her mother made to her for travel expenses. “I should like to know where he is. That location will tell me whether he is investing my funds appropriately,” she continued, echoing her father’s words from overheard conversations and hoping it sounded convincing enough to gain some information.
“Lord Penry did not divulge his travel plans,” James replied stiffly. “If that is all…” He rose, signaling the end of their conversation.
“He is in danger. I’m trying to help him.”
James’ jaw tightened.
“He has offended the queen, and he is ignoring her,” Joya continued, needing desperately to convince him of the danger. “Both can bring grave consequences.”
“If he has offended the queen, it’s not without good reason. Lucas Bonwyk is a fine man. He lives by his principles, and he is purely and totally dedicated to England.”
Joya resisted shaking her head to clear it. Why was he suddenly spouting testimony about Luke’s principles and dedication to England?
Like ice melting to reveal the lake beneath it, it became clear to Joya. If James so admired Luke’s courage and convictions—and his rebellion against the queen—it meant they shared the same views about Margaret … and York!
She placed her hands on the table, rose on tiptoe and leaned forward. “You know where he is. You know.”
“Aye,” he replied.
“Where?”
“Here. In Redstone.”
Joya hurried to Uncle Benjamin’s house and found Degory on the back deck. “He’s here?”
“And gone again,” Degory said. “He must have come home just before dawn, and he left before I woke.”
Chapter 18
Luke oared his boat to the pier, working quietly in the darkness. To avoid interrogation, he had deliberately stayed away from his uncle’s house, waiting for the deep hours past midnight. He had only two days in which to prepare, mayhap less. If the Lancastrian troops traveled over drier roads, if Margaret whipped them into a fury, if they traveled with fewer supplies—many unknowns could hasten their arrival to the Red Bridge.
He waved to Wagg’s guards, who followed his every move from the shoreline. They had personally loaded the two canisters they had packed, and they watched him now to be sure he anchored them properly to the bridge support system.
Good that they couldn’t swim and had paled when he approached the dock to let them board. They had backed away instead, choosing to observe from ashore. Luke quietly opened an inconspicuous panel below the center seat and using his foot, dragged free the two canisters he had packed earlier by himself. Reaching down, he slid the guard-packed canisters into the compartment and closed the door.
Taking a wide stance to balance in the small boat, he lifted a canister. He wrapped it in oiled canvas the same ruddy color of the rocks at the base of the pier. Once secured to the pier, he dipped his hand into a bucket of mud and flicked it in a random pattern on the canvas. Once he had blended it to look naturally worn, he moved to a second pier and repeated the process.
Working alone, he had no one to help steady the boat as he worked. His movements were awkward, his progress slow. Finally he was done. He waved again to the guards. After rinsing the bucket, he returned his tools to the floor of the boat, lifted the oars and floated downstream to a thick copse of willows. He lifted the rope, untangling it before mooring the boat to the dock.
* * *
Joya shut the front door quietly and found Degory waiting for her. It was well over an hour before dawn, dark and misty.
“I found him.” Deg spoke softly. “He went to the docks. Took a boat out.”
“Is that saggy-eyed man with him?”
“Wagg? No. He was alone.”
“Let’s see what he’s up to,” Joya said.
“Did you learn anything from the bridge merchants?”
“Nothing more than what everyone seems to know, already—that Luke has returned.” She faced him. “You didn’t mention how Luke’s father and brother died.”
“You’re dear to him. He should be the one to explain such a loss.”
“You think I’m dear to him?”
“One need only see his eyes when he looks at you.”
The words soothed Joya. “I so want to help him.”
“You can.”
“How? Whenver I try, it ends up tangled and ruined. Everyone in my family is clever except me. My mother manages Coin Forest. My sister, Faith, designs jewelry. Nicole reads in three languages. But I—“ She hesitated to confess, but it had become such a burden, and Degory’s look of concern reassured her.
She lowered her eyes. “I have no such wit as they.”
Degory laughed. "Of course you do. You saw through James. I had no idea he supported York."
Stupid. Memories of Mother Issabel’s harsh judgment scorched Joya. "I was told long ago. I am … slow-witted."
Degory tilted his head and peered into her eyes. "Despair not for that which should stay in the past. I have watched you. You light up a room when you enter it, and ‘tis more than your gowns and jewelry. You’re always thinking, listening, observing. And you saved Luke's life. You fooled four knights to free him."
“‘Twas bad judgment. I shamed my father, I—”
"Your friends helped you, I heard."
"I'm sure they're suffering from my judgment.”
"You're missing the point. The outcome may not have been as you wished, but they saw the worth in your plan. They know how capable you are. They trusted you enough to join you in your effort to free Luke.”
Joya stepped carefully as the riverbank path became more steep. In light of Degory's reasoning, Mother Issabel’s judgment lost some of its long-lived sting. Joya had not given such thought to it as Degory had. Was she dismissing her accomplishments because they displeased her father? Her mother had condemned the apricot seed tactic, but she had smiled when she talked of Joya felling four experienced knights. Joya had been warmed by that smile, for it revealed that she had made her mother proud.
Joya stood a little taller. �
�Thank you, Deg. Let’s find out what Luke is doing down here at this hour."
They reached the docks.
"Look," Deg said. "There he is." Luke was untangling a rope, preparing to moor the boat to the dock.
“Godspeed, Lord Penry.”
Luke turned toward Joya's voice. The interruption made his heart seize and her voice made his pulse quicken. “Joya.” How much had she seen? “What in devil are you doing out at this hour? Are you alone?” The thought both annoyed and stirred him.
“Of course not,” she said. “Degory is with me. We have some questions for you.”
“Godspeed, cousin.” Degory stepped out of the darkness, and the thin moonlight lit both of their profiles as they stood together on the bank that led to the boathouse. “What might you be doing this fine … night?” Degory tipped his head to the left. “Or would you say morning?”
Luke licked his lips. “I couldn’t sleep, and remembered how …” He searched for a useful word, “… soothing it was to take the boat out on the river.”
“Odd that I didn’t see you at dinner, or in your bed, failing to sleep,” Degory said.
Curse Degory for bringing Joya along. Curse him twice for interrogating him, and thrice for doing it with Joya present. “I didn’t need to put my head to the pillow to know I couldn’t sleep.”
“So you won’t mind if we join you.” Degory gave Luke a mealy-mouthed grin. “We would like a soothing ride, also."
“Please?” Joya added.
Luke conducted a quick mental search of the boat. There was only a bucket and some twine left, nothing incriminating. He could only hope they hadn’t seen Wagg's guards or come to the shoreline until after he’d finished at the piers. “Come on.”
They boarded and he threw the rope back into the boat. Joya wore her travel suit, but regardless of what she wore after Crystal Lake, whenever he looked at her he always saw the thin chemise she had worn there, wet, revealing her exquisite nipples. Desire bolted through his groin and he mentally tamped the thoughts down, offering her his hand to help her get settled on the smaller front seat.
He pointedly offered Degory one of the oars, and they took the wide middle bench and pushed off. “Where to?”
“The inlet,” Degory said. “So you won’t get too tired to bring us back.”
Luke gritted his teeth. Before retiring, he would put tacks in Degory’s bed.
They oared downstream past the boathouse into the quiet inlet, a good fishing spot for those who knew.
“Yes, most relaxing.” Degory took a deep breath in and let it out. “Have you heard about the knights setting up camp south of here?”
Wagg’s Irish mercenaries. “No.” The outright lie ground like dirty gravel across Luke’s tongue. He abhorred liars. Like an illness with no cure, he faced the unhappy prospect of telling more in the future. “Mayhap they're merchants, heading for the fair in Winchester?”
Degory shook his head. “That won’t start for a fortnight. Thought you might know something of it since you’ve been traveling recently.”
Luke’s skin prickled. The boat seemed to be shrinking along with his choices. “Why would I?”
“Word has it they’re York’s forces.” Deg oared three more strokes in silence. “There’s over a hundred of them so far. Irish.”
Luke waited. In the front seat, Joya was oddly silent.
“Could be merchants. Trading copper or tin.”
“No. Their wagons are full of munitions.”
Had Joya lost her tongue? Luke scratched his neck, awkward in the silence.
“And who is that man with the big ears who’s been frequenting the bridge? I’ve seen you talking with him.”
“Met him at one of my bridges. He knows my work.” Luke walked around the answer, trying desperately to limit the deception.
Degory quit rowing. “Has he hired you, Luke? For a special project?”
Luke bristled under the scrutiny. “I do not discuss my projects until they’re finalized.”
“And have your plans with this man been finalized?” Degory prodded.
Luke’s neck heated, and ill thoughts formed of how he could lift his cousin from his bench and throw him overboard. “I think this ride has come to an end.” He grabbed the oar from Degory and rowed quickly to a small dock. “Godspeed, and get Joya home safely,” he said, dismissing them.
“Oh, no, please don’t be angry at Joya because of me,” Degory said. “Take her around to the end of the inlet, give her a nice ride.”
“Yes, please, Luke. Won’t you?” Joya finally spoke. “I would so enjoy it.”
“She has come all this way to be with you,” Deg said, driving the stake deeper, trapping Luke.
Joya’s lips, full and sensuous, were drawn in a pout, and her brown eyes sparkled in the moonlight. “You can go, Degory,” she said. “Luke will take care of me.”
Degory jumped up to the dock. “Get home before dawn, you two.” He strode quickly off the dock and into the darkness.
“Ah, just you and me.” Joya leaned forward. “In a boat.” She added silk and softness to her voice. “Want to race?”
Luke’s eyes, blue and angry, followed his cousin as he deserted him. Joya fought to contain a smile. Degory had helped her corner Luke. Haunted by the visions of her dream, she would now, at last, find the right words to make Luke return to the Lancastrian side.
“We know what the Irish camps mean, Luke. These are the plans you had in your saddle pack. You are leading them.”
“Nay.” He shook his head. “I am not.”
She shot a frown his way. “You’re very much involved. And why? Is it really no more than one royal struggling against another royal? When you speak of York, you speak of absolute right and wrong. York is honorable and pure and good, while Margaret is dark and evil and selfish. Oh, yes, and French. Is it that simple then?”
Luke intensified his rowing. She placed her hand on his arm. “Let’s float. Give me this time, please, to understand you.”
“We haven’t the time. I must—.”
“Must what?” She sighed in frustration. “I helped you, Luke. I freed you to do what you plan to do. Now I need you to help me. Everything I hold dear depends on it.” She paused. “Must you die for your principles, even when you may be wrong?”
“You’re frustrated because you’ve a strong feeling that I’m right. What you’re feeling is fear.”
“Of what?”
“Change. You cannot imagine a life for your family that does not include the shelter of Margaret’s favor.”
His words stung and invited more thought. For many years, her family had enjoyed preferential treatment from the crown. Could that be? “We are not loyal dogs who lay at her feet and bite anyone who threatens her.”
He cocked his head to one side, as if weighing her comment. “Forsooth?”
The troubling images of her dream fueled her resolve to convince him. “There’s to be a blood bath. Thousands of soldiers must die so York and his issue can sit on the throne.”
“Who supports this French Queen, Joya? Not the English! All of London despises her and refuses to supply soldiers to the king. Does this not tell you something about your beloved queen?
"She leads an army of 30,000, forced to serve, not for love of England or the king but for fear of the queen. Or for love of money, taken from our own people and used to wage war against us. Ask my dead brothers about her.”
Luke’s face softened, and his penetrating blue eyes turned pleading. “Joya, loyalty is not a one sided affair. It must be nurtured from each side. If it does not, what is it? Blind following. Or dedication based on fear? Loyalty is a decision we make. You can ally yourself with one whom you respect, with whom you believe in, and trust—or you can tie your sail to someone out of sheer gratitude. And a healthy dose of insecurity. What is your loyalty to Margaret based on?”
“God’s blood, Luke! King Henry sentenced my brother Stephen to death. She saved him. Does that not count for our
respect? Our trust?”
“Mayhap she saw the tides in England turning toward York, and the prospect of gaining undying devotion from your strong and established family looked attractive to her?”
“So you distrust her.”
“She killed my brothers in cold blood.”
“We have talked this to death. She has sworn she didn't."
“Easily staged.”
“Who’s being blindly loyal now?”
“My loyalty to York is based on my opinion of him. My faith that he will do what’s right for England. It’s not based on an isolated, selfish act that happened to become a saving grace for my family.”
“Selfish?”
“On Margaret’s part, yes. I’m loyal to the Plantagenets because York has earned it. I see his integrity and willingness to serve for the good of the country, not because he wants, as you say, to sit on the throne.”
“You’re as taken with York as we are with Margaret.” Joya could swear she felt steam shooting out of her ears. “So York is so good and pure that he’s approaching sainthood. Fine. But what about the men he would appoint to rule England? Are they so honorable and good? What about this strange man Degory mentioned? The one with the saggy eyes and big ears? Is he honorable and true?”
Luke dropped his eyes.
“Well?”
He started rowing again, not meeting her gaze. Joya’s senses sharpened. She had found a flaw in his armor. “I sense he has dangerous secrets.”
Luke smirked. “Some of your Gypsy magic?”
Joya drew a sharp intake of air. He attacked her heritage. She remained outwardly calm, but the affront made her bristle. Until he said that, they had been exchanging ideas, not slurs. “No magic. Simply something you should have seen but did not. After all, your brothers called you a turtle.”
He drew back as if she had slapped him. She had wanted to hurt him back, and she had. Remorseful, she touched his arm. “I’m sorry. I know it hurts you but I understand why they said that. You avoid people, as if you’re retreating into your shell. When you do that, you miss signs. Like this man—what’s his name?”
