by Janet Lane
“I can’t divulge.”
“Of course not.” She had hoped he would have shared the name with her willingly. “This man with the drooping eyes." She snapped her fingers. "I remember now, his name is Wagg. I saw him the first night I came here, in your uncle’s house. He was spying, edging close to overhear conversations. And the look he gave me was chilling."
A thoughtful expression came over Luke’s features, and again he broke eye contact. She hoped that she had planted another seed of doubt about this man. “You say I'm afraid of change. I think you have wishful thinking about this spy whom neither Degory nor I trust. Think about that.”
Luke did not respond.
“Think on York, too. Remember Ludford Bridge? Instead of staying with his men and fighting, he abandoned them, his tail between his legs. Should such a coward be king?"
“He retreated because his commanders switched sides. York’s troops would have been slaughtered, so they left. It was not dishonorable.”
Joya shook her head. “It’s one thing to have a strong spirit, Luke, and I admire yours, but it’s another to be so stubborn that you can’t see the truth. The pickle barrel was horrible, but there was a lesson to be learned.”
Luke’s eyes widened and he dropped the oars. Recovering, his lips thinned and a muscle pulsed furiously in his jaw. She hated making him so angry, but she had to somehow reach him.
“What kind of lesson was that?” He slashed the words her way, venom deepening his voice even further.
“A lesson to not be so stubborn. Please, please consider the possibilities. You said you’d save England for me, remember?” She rushed on, hoping to open his mind, terrified that she had gone too far. “You can’t save England. But you can save my family, and your family, too. Think of Hugh, your only remaining brother, and your uncle and your cousin Degory. Save them.” She choked, the tears stinging the backs of her eyes. “Save us. Please, Luke.”
He picked up the oars and sank them deep in the water, pulling them back out to the river. The oars created ripples in the water that slipped away from the boat, so like the deep hopes she had held, now swirling out of her grasp. Each stroke drew them nearer to the bridge, nearer to the end of their meeting, the end of her efforts. If she could not convince him after all she had said, it was hopeless.
She would gather her things, wake her father and ask him to take her home. She could not bear to stay and see Luke tortured.
She watched his face, memorizing the blue of his eyes, the intensity and passion always shining in them, the way the moonlight played on his brown hair, the firm set of his sensual mouth. She had tried.
He neared the shoreline and stopped oaring, letting the boat’s momentum take them in and slide onto shore. The earth scraped against the bottom of the boat, a raw and decisive end to their journey together.
He covered her hands with his own and faced her. His blue eyes seemed to reach into her soul. His touch was gentle but firm, caressing the tops of her hands, a look so earnest and tender that she could no longer control the moisture. Silent tears slid down her face, cooling in the pre-dawn chill.
He wiped her tears with his thumbs. “Nay. No more tears. I will do as you wish.”
She shook her head. Her ears must be fooling her. “What?”
“I will declare my full and undying loyalty to our queen. I will do it before the sun sets on this new day. I vow to you.”
Chapter 19
“Luke!” Joya cried. Her mother could never have spun a spell so potent as this one, to know that Luke had come to his senses. The thought danced in her veins and burst from her in a giggle that grew into full-throated laughter. Weeks of refusal from a man more stubborn than winter rains. Endless failure and frustration, but now, finally. Acceptance, and a vow. She jumped up from her seat at the front of the boat, reaching for him. “Finally!”
Her footing failed. Staggering out of balance, she rocked the boat. It lurched, the water surging up the sides. It tumbled her stomach and threatened to capsize the boat.
Luke bolted up, taking a wide stance. He lifted her at the waist, steadying her, his deep voice reassuring. “We don’t want to go swimming again.” He stilled her in his arms, settled the boat and helped her sit down.
She cradled his handsome face in her hands, laughing in delight. “You’ll do it! Thank God! Thank the faeries! Thank you, Luke!” She rained kisses on his cheeks and neck.
His face sobered into an expression of sorrow, and she tried to kiss it away. “Do not worry so. All will be fine now. You’ll see. Oh, Luke! I love you!” She covered his mouth with hers, kissing him deeply.
He resisted for a moment, then gave himself in to the kiss and pulled her close. Droplets of river water clung to his skin and she relished the scent of him, of summer and moist earth and the tang on his skin that was exclusively Luke.
Her Luke.
Her Lancastrian Luke.
She moaned, delirious with relief and the first sense of peace she had ever felt in his embrace. His mouth slid against hers, she thought she heard the singing of angels as she entered heaven.
He kissed her eyes, her forehead, her nose, and hands. “But you must make a vow to me.” His voice had deepened, thick with desire, and he swallowed. “You must leave the bridge. This morning.”
“I will not leave without you.”
“You must. There will be a battle here.”
A burst of wind chilled her back. “Here?”
“Soon, yes. You must quit the bridge. Today. You, your father, my uncle and aunt. Degory, and my brother, Hugh. You all must leave. I will take you to Marston, east of here. You will be safe.”
“And you can come with us, and we—”
His face steeled. “You will not naysay me on this. You, Joya Ellingham, must pledge to me that you will do as I say with this. Your life—my life—depends on your leaving.”
Fear chilled her, burrowing deep into her bones. “What’s happening?”
His eyes narrowed. “There is no time for explanation. You must promise me. Now.”
“Will I see you again?”
“God willing. Now say it.”
“I vow—” She choked, stricken with the sudden return to the familiar, gnawing fear that she would never see his face again. She wiped away the first tear and ignored those that followed. Finally she took a deep breath, gave a shaky exhale, and continued. “I vow I will leave the bridge today.”
“And?”
“Go to Marston with you.”
His jaw muscle twitched. “And stay there until I come back for you.”
She nodded.
He kissed her again, his mouth soft and gentle on hers.
* * *
Luke waited for Joya and Tabor to join him in the solar. He had returned from the boat storage building and visited with his uncle and cousin on the river deck, explaining that they needed to leave the bridge. Uncle Benjamin refused, saying he would stay and defend his home and village. Luke revealed that thousands of troops were coming. His uncle finally agreed to leave, and he and his aunt were packing their keepsakes.
To the east, the sun broke through the grey ceiling of clouds, promising good travel to Marston.
An object on the far shelf caught Luke’s eye, and he retrieved it. The model bridge Luke had built for Joya.
Joya. Embers from her kisses still warmed him. He thought of how the sun played with the color of her eyes, lighting them from the shade of cinnamon to the hue of copper, and her hair, black and shimmering to her waist.
She reminded him of the dark-winged butterfly. She had fluttered into his life, bringing at times sunshine, fresh air and beauty, and at other times her impulsive nature and best intentions creating unimaginable crises.
She had brought the bridge he built for her from toosticcas, sticks to clean the teeth. Impulsively, she had packed it with her clothes when she traveled from Coin Forest, and somewhere during her trip it had broken almost in half.
With time on his hands, he strod
e to the cupboard and grabbed a handful of fresh sticks. He could, at the least, repair this bridge. In his uncle’s workshop, he found a small jar of horse hoof glue. Back in the solar, he began rebuilding the model. Working in the tiny space, he replaced portions of the arches.
This is what I was meant to do. Build. Not destroy.
Her words had stung him with their logic and simplicity. She had tried to save him, and he had injured her and her family. Save her—‘twas the least he could do. Save England for her—had he really said that? Had his confidence grown into such arrogance? Forsooth. He could not save her, and he could not save himself. How had he been so bold as to think he could save all of England? Was he not as bad as Wagg?
And she loves me. How could this woman, the most beautiful woman Luke had ever seen, love such a fool? He owed her too much, and he had not the resources to repay her, or give her what she wanted. He had stumbled his way into a nightmare, and there was no escape for him, but he could get her and her family to safety.
She’d called him stubborn. He shortened a stick and dipped it into the small jar. Too stubborn to consider the facts before him. Must he die for his principles, even if they were wrong? Were they wrong?
Her comments about Wagg were the most unsettling, because she had put words to the growing mistrust Luke had been feeling. Because Luke had avoided his uncle’s dinner and all his uncle’s guests, Luke had not seen Wagg, and Wagg had not mentioned being there. Why hadn’t Wagg told him he was there? Was he checking up on me? Suspicions needled their way into Luke’s thoughts. If Wagg didn’t trust Luke, why should Luke trust Wagg?
York’s absence stuck in Luke’s throat like a splintered bone. His brief message from Ireland had been only slight reassurance. Wagg was hiding something, but Luke had no concrete evidence to support it. The man was too vague about critical matters. York would be at the Red Bridge, he insisted, but where was he now?
Joya had accused Luke of being a turtle. God’s blood! The memory of that pickle barrel penetrated his lungs like an acrid smoke, taking his breath. He had never thought about the meaning behind the cruel name; he had merely hated his brothers for it.
He let her words in again. “Don’t be so stubborn. Consider other possibilities.” He shook his head. He liked being alone, but there could be some truth in her words. He must stop keeping to himself. He must reach out to others. A man came to mind, someone who may help him. He plugged the glue jar, set the small bridge back on the shelf to dry, and met his uncle at the front door. “I’m on an errand,” he told Uncle Benjamin. “I’ll be right back.”
Luke greeted the guards at the changing house and found James. In the privacy of the accounts room, he regarded the old man. Luke had come to help James save his business, but he also needed information. Could James be trusted? Would his information be reliable?
At the least, he would be more trustworthy than Wagg. Hopeful, Luke ventured out of his shell.
He met James’ gaze, ready to note his every expression. “You have been discreet and trustworthy with my affairs,” he said. “I have appreciated that.”
“Thank you. How can I help you today, Luke?”
“You must keep what I am about to say in absolute confidence.”
“You can be assured I will not—”
Luke held up his hand, palm facing James. “Some of what I tell you will affect you. You must promise me that you will conceal any worry or anxiety that may draw attention to you. I promise you, you have time to protect your business.”
James’ forehead tightened into two prominent vertical creases. “I will be subtle. Tell me.”
“We are on the threshold of battle.” He took a breath. “It will be staged on this bridge.”
James’ eyes widened. “Here. York?”
Luke nodded.
“When?”
“Soon,” Luke said.
“He can’t be here,” James said.
“I have been told he is. I have seen his Irish troops; they are a few miles away. Margaret and Henry are traveling south, for St. Albans and London. York aims to stop them.”
James’ expression suggested he suddenly thought of the repercussions to his business, and his lips thinned. “My records. My clients’ accounts.”
Luke knew well his worry. Wherever there were battles, to the victors went the spoils. If the residents at the site of the battle were unfortunate enough to be on the losing side, lootings and burnings occurred. Margaret didn’t know of James’ support to York, but she was known to allow her mercenary knights to plunder at will as payment for fighting for the crown. James was at risk of losing everything, regardless the outcome of the battle.
“Move your records tonight,” Luke said. “You may store them in the Flinton tithing barn. I have prepared this message for Will Flinton.” Luke handed him a sealed parchment. “Warn the other bridge merchants, too, but avoid panic, and move by midnight. Post only guards you can trust.”
“I hope Margaret’s head rolls,” James said.
Florin jumped down from the high shelf and into James’ lap. James petted him and put him back on the floor. “I am indebted to you. I must tell you, though. York is still in Ireland. He isn’t to return for at least a month.”
An iron ball dropped in Luke’s stomach. “What?”
“York plans to pick up more troops in Calais, but he is still in Ireland. “
“Why would he stay over? He planned all this.”
“York is here, now?” James paused. “Have you seen him?”
“Nay.”
“Who is your source?”
“Wagg, York’s second in command.”
“Second only in Ireland,” James said. “In England, Warwick and Salisbury are closest to York, crucial to his plans.” He paused. “Are you sure about the Irish?”
“I’ve seen them. The plans changed.” Luke’s mind raced. Either York and his leaders had found an ingenious, infallible plan that would end the war earlier, or Wagg was a rebel leader, acting independently and secretly. Would Wagg be so daring as that? Would York make such a big mistake of trusting Wagg?
“I’m sure they’ll both be here, tomorrow or the day after, at the latest. Wagg is sure of the queen’s travels, and that she can be easily defeated.” Luke shook his head. “York said he'd be here. We need to reach him, posthaste.”
“I'll do it,” James said.
“My thanks. I must go. I’m moving my family out of danger. But York or not, there will be a battle.” He struck James’ arm lightly. “Thank you for the information.”
“And to you for the warning. Godspeed,” James said.
Luke gave Florin a scratch on his massive head. “I’ll be back before sunrise.”
* * *
Luke adjusted his armor and eyed his uncle’s wagon. Large and filled to overflowing, it would be burdensome and slow them down during the journey to Marston.
Uncle Benjamin shot him a warning look. “Say no more on it. ‘Tis what we need if we’re to abandon our home.”
“I did not have a part in this decision,” Luke said.
“But you knew of it, all this time.” The look in his uncle’s eyes revealed bitter disappointment.
Luke led them from Redstone, his party of the Bonwyks, Lord Tabor and Joya. The wagon lumbered behind and Tabor’s knights and Degory brought up the rear. Armor clanked with the gait of the horses, disturbing the late morning quiet.
Hugh lifted his breastplate, grimacing from the fit. He was so thin it had been hard to fit armor for him at Coin Forest. The smallest suit sagged on his thin frame, and the helm, a size too large, had wobbled on his head until he finally ripped it off and crammed it into his saddle pack. His hair stood on end from the helmet, giving him the look of having seen a ghost.
They traveled through the Cotswolds, one of the most beautiful parts of England, lovely rolling hills and pleasant valleys, stretching hundreds of miles from Avon to the north, all the way south to Bath. The area was rich from the wealth of wool, a t
reat for the eyes. The green countryside was dotted with spring flowers, sheep and small villages built with honeyed bricks of limestone. Achingly beautiful in the sunshine, they reminded Luke of his love for England. He wanted was what was best for her. And best for his and Joya’s families. Would that he knew how to accomplish both, and get answers to all the nagging questions about York.
The roads were dry, which would help. Luke could not take them all the way to Marston. He would have to rely on Deg to do so.
Hours into their trip, they crested a hill and a sobering view unfolded. The fields below were splattered with signs of war. Hundreds of tents stretched, far as the eye could see, with large fields roped off for horses, dozens of smoking fires, and lines upon lines of wagons, many filled with arrows, their points glistening in the sun like sheaves of metal, aimed at the sun. Luke recognized the banners—the English troops Wagg mentioned.
Joya gasped and clutched her throat.
Luke extended his arm, stopping her horse. “Go back before they see us.”
They backtracked quickly.
“What is it?” Degory, with the knights behind the wagon, had been too far back to witness.
“Troops. A few hundred,” Luke said. They would move through the night to the Red Bridge.
“At least five,” Tabor said. "White banners."
“Yorkists,” Uncle Benjamin said. “You should know, Luke.” His tone was sharp.
“I didn’t think they would be in this area.”
“Where did you think they would be?” Uncle Benjamin glared. “God’s teeth, Luke, you need to tell us.”
“They’re headed to the bridge.”
“You never told us it would be this many.” His uncle’s voice was dark with accusation.
“I would never knowingly put you at risk. There’s much I do not know,” Luke said. “The sooner we get to Marston, the better."
