by Janet Lane
They traveled with more urgency. As they approached the Marston village gate, Joya turned to him. “I would have a word with you.” She led her horse away from the group and turned to him.
He joined her. “What?”
“Did you send word to Margaret?”
Luke’s mind raced. “I haven’t had the time. I was planning to find a messenger here.”
“You vowed. You say there’s much you don’t know, but there’s also much you do. You need to get word to her. You will seek a messenger here?”
“Aye.”
Anger distorted her features. “You don’t meet my eyes. You lied to me to get me to come here, didn’t you?”
The extended lack of sleep had left him weak-minded. His web of lies and half-truths caught up with him, dulling his senses. Had he avoided deceit? Had he—
She slapped him with her reins. “Leave me.” She spun her horse away and returned to her father’s side, her lip curled in contempt.
Her scorn was a dagger to his side. She had believed in him for so long; why now would she drop all faith?
“I’ll check for a messenger,” Luke said.
“We’ll wait here,” Tabor said.
“Hugh.” Luke gestured to his brother to follow him and they entered the village gate. "I need to send a message."
Hugh made a strange, guttural sound and reined his horse to a stop.
Luke turned to his brother. “What? You look as if you’ve seen the devil himself.”
Hugh angled his horse behind Luke. “It’s him,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper.
“Him? Who?”
“The bastard who killed our brothers.” Hugh’s face was as white as his teeth.
A man was leaving the inn with a woman on his arm, an alehouse woman by the looks of her carelessly provocative dress. By his posture and movements, he looked to be around Luke’s age, average height, but by the considerable development of his arms and thighs, he had spent time in the lists. Based on his black-stubbled scalp, he had shaved his head a sennight ago. His charger was hitched at the side of the building. He wore only a breastplate over his breeches and a short sword was sheathed on his left, a war sword on his charger.
Caution knotted Luke’s belly. “’Tis some distance. You may be wrong, Hugh. Let’s get closer.”
“Nay! He’s an ox, and see his hair. He was nigh bald when he took Penryton.” His brother’s voice was as raw as it had been in Tabor’s solar when he first told the tale of the siege. Without his helm, Luke imagined Hugh felt vulnerable. “He called me Goat Boy. He’ll kill me.”
“I’ll kill him first.”
Hugh’s eyes, wide with fear, darted back and forth. Luke wished he had time to soothe his little brother. He had always been sickly and underdeveloped and had barely escaped this man’s sword. Luke grabbed his brother’s reins so he couldn’t bolt. “Think of your fallen brothers. Get control of yourself. Come behind this tree and wait for him to pass. You’ll get a better look.”
Covered, they watched the man kiss and fondle the woman.
She held him tightly, as if trying to capture him, pressing her body close to him. He wrenched free, mounted the charger and rode toward them.
Hugh’s breath heaved, rushed out in shallow puffs. “’Tis him.”
“You’re sure?”
“Sure as my own name.”
The man lacked armorial bearings—a mercenary. Fury made it hard for Luke to breathe. He would kill this butcher or die trying.
A curtain of white rage rose behind Luke’s eyes.
Luke was no stranger to the lists. He had trained in Ireland most recently, and had proven his skill at arms. “Slow down,” he told his brother. "He has to pass us to get to the gate. We’ll bide our time for the perfect spot.”
They followed him through the village, waited at a respectable distance as he passed the gate to leave. Luke noted with relief that Tabor had taken Joya and Benjamin’s family away from the gate entrance.
Hugh and Luke turned down the narrow lane leading north out of town. They stayed far enough back to avoid detection until the knight reached the crest of a large hill. He had passed a timbered area, and happened to look back. He spotted Luke and Hugh. He spurred his horse into a run.
His charger was large and powerful, but Luke and Hugh rode horses from Tabor’s stables, known throughout England for their speed. Luke pushed his steed and closed in on the knight.
The man grew careless. He jumped a fence, entering a compound of sheep.
The compound included two large grazing fields, each about two acres square, bordered by two small shearing pens and buildings. The assassin had entered the largest field.
The herders ran from the shade of a large oak tree and chased the knight, whistling and calling commands to the herding collies. The men spotted Luke and Hugh in hot pursuit. Sensing trouble, they scurried off the green field to the safety of their shepherd’s hut.
The dogs nipped the heels of the sheep, trying to draw them away from the horses, but the sheep scattered in a roiling chaos. The knight chose to bolt for the west fence, threading through the flock. He made good progress until an old ewe stumbled and fell, causing others to fall. The sheep behind them collided with those in the front. The killer’s horse stepped on the sheep and there was the sound of bones breaking. The mercenary’s charger stumbled and fell in the white sea of squealing wool.
Luke picked through the confused herd and reached the knight. He was dazed from the fall and lay on the ground, surrounded by the bloodied ewes. He shook his head, jumped up. Clutching his war dagger, he braced his legs for battle.
Luke closed in on him and slid from his horse, sword drawn.
The knight raised his sword against him.
Luke advanced. A primitive roar of revenge broke free from his throat. “This is for my brothers!” He lashed out with his sword, determined to cut the man in half.
The knight dodged the sword. “Who in Hades are you?”
“I’m Lucas. Lucas Bonwyk, you swine.”
“Bonwyk. Oh! Nothing personal there. Queen’s duty, you know.” His lips twisted into a cynical smile.
So he knew it was Margaret. “You killed my brothers. It sure as hell is personal.” Luke advanced.
Swords clanged. The knight’s sword skimmed to the hilt of Luke’s sword, jarring his shoulder and wrist.
The knight wore no vambrace, so Luke retaliated with a fast thrust, catching a quarter of flesh on the knight’s forearm. The knight’s face fell for a moment, and he laughed. “You’ll have to do better than that, Penry.”
"I did. I struck sinew." Luke swung again, shoulders rotating, feet dug in the grass for stability.
They struggled, each man measuring, pacing, attacking.
Luke took deeper breaths, trying to see clearly through his rage. He lunged again.
He struck the knight’s armor in his midsection. The metal dented, knocking the air out of his lungs. He grunted and stumbled.
Thundering hoof beats sounded behind Luke.
Hugh came rushing toward the knight. “Kill him!”
The knight looked up. “Goat Boy!” He burst into laughter.
The look on Hugh’s face melted from fury to fear, and he reined his horse sharply.
Hugh’s horse stopped so short that Hugh flew up in the saddle, catching himself before he toppled over his steed’s head. Hugh scrambled back in the saddle and turned tail, spurring his horse away.
The assassin sidestepped to his horse and pulled his sword, never taking his gaze from Luke.
A smile curved the killer’s mouth, taunting Luke. He thought of Christopher, so accomplished in the lists. His brother would have emerged victorious from a fair fight, but this devil’s whelp had used royal livery as protection and cut his brother down.
Luke bellowed and struck the knight’s sword.
Anger boiled in Luke’s veins. He lunged and attacked without fear, eager to kill. Blades collided. Steel clanged. Luke saw nothing b
ut the killer’s eyes and his sword.
The assassin moved smoothly with quick, precise thrusts. He moved well. A message fired in the back of Luke’s mind, an urgent message that he douse his anger to better match his opponent.
A sensation of fire cut across Luke’s wrist.
Luke looked down, saw the deep wound. He returned his gaze to the killer. He willed his arm to keep swinging, and an inner calm came over him.
The killer’s focus shifted and he pulled back to attack.
Luke countered before the killer could strike.
Steel met steel and the killer’s wrist collapsed. His sword fell to the ground.
Pain needled into Luke’s hand, but he held his sword to the knight’s chest, chest heaving to draw air.
The knight placed his arms out in surrender. “Don’t kill me.”
“Wait, wait!” Hugh called out. “I want to see him die.”
Luke held his sword poised to run him through. “This is for my brothers, Christopher and Humfrye.”
The knight panted, but had the ballocks to smile. “Think. Or you’ll never know who hired me.”
Joya’s voice rang in Luke’s head, “How can you be so sure it’s the Queen?” He considered it for a moment, but promptly shut the door and glared at the killer. “You said it yourself, it was Margaret.”
“I said it was the queen’s business. She has enemies. It was not her.”
Luke’s breath came fast and short, the killer’s words sinking in. Would he regret never knowing? By Jove, he would, for the rest of his days. “Speak now, while you still can,” he rasped.
“Nay.” The mercenary laughed softly. “If I tell you, there’s a price.”
Luke held his sword, considering. He could run this fiend through and avenge his brothers now, this moment. But he would never learn who sent this bastard to sack his home and kill them. “You’re a paid killer. I will not spare your life.”
“You will. You will vow to me—vow to me on the souls of your brothers—that you will spare me. Then I will tell you.”
Fury blinded him. “You murder my brothers and expect me to pledge on their souls? Never. Show us how brave you are with your own life, you bastard. Tell me and take the chance.”
The mercenary’s lips curled away from his teeth, and he shook his head.
Luke stared at the paid slayer. Even in his compromising position, the man’s eyes burned, cold and calculating. Luke knew at that moment that he would die before revealing his secret.
It tortured him to think of letting this man go free.
“Lucas.” Hugh shouted from a distance. “Pledge. So we can know.”
Wary of distraction, Luke resisted glancing at Hugh. After witnessing this murderer kill his brothers, if Hugh would spare his life to get the truth, how could Luke kill him?
Moments passed.
Blood had saturated the padded gambeson under the killer’s armor. Luke flicked his sword by the knight’s right ear, slicing him again. “I will give you a twenty-yard lead.”
“Thirty. On horseback. With my sword and dagger.” He spoke his words firmly, but the whites of his eyes showed his fear.
“All right,” Hugh said, still maintaining a good distance. “Swear, Luke.” He paused. “Pray do it now.”
“The truth,” Luke growled.
“The truth,” the killer repeated.
“And if you deceive me, I will track you down and kill you and all you hold dear.”
“You need not worry,” the knight rasped. “The minute I tell you, you will know I speak the truth.”
Luke tamped down the fury that boiled under his skin. “I vow, on my brothers’ souls, that I will release you. Now,” Luke growled. “What’s your name?”
“That wasn’t part of our agreement. I said I would tell you who ordered your brothers dead.”
Fury distorted Luke’s vision. He took a breath to clear his thoughts. “Who hired you?”
The killer met Luke’s eyes and held them, his gaze purposeful and fearless, but his chest rose and fell like high tide at Tintagel.
Silence hummed. Luke found it difficult to breathe.
“Wagg,” the knight said. “It was Wagg.”
Chapter 20
The killer rode away. Luke and Hugh retraced their route the two miles back to Marston to rejoin Tabor, Joya and their family. Luke dabbed at a bleeding cut on his wrist—the killer’s sword had found the space between Luke’s vambrace and gauntlet and sliced him, barely missing the sinews.
And Luke had let him go. He shook his head. He had failed to avenge his brothers. Their murderer had slipped like dust through his hands, uttering lies as bald as his head as he rode to freedom.
God’s bones! Wagg was secretive and arrogant, but if naught else he was loyal to York, and so eager to put him on the throne that he was taking foolish chances, but he would never … York would never order Wagg to kill Luke’s brothers. Luke was sure beyond doubt that the Duke of York was an honest man. He’d proven that at St. Alban’s. His troops had defeated and captured the king, but never harmed him. York had served as Henry’s Protector and always treated him with kindness and dignity.
Unlike the killer, who had no honor. He killed for the highest bidder, and who could be higher than royalty? Luke should have run him through and been done with it. Now all he held in his hand was a wound and an insulting lie.
Hugh and Luke returned to the Marston wall and the guard delivered bad news. Part of their uncle’s party had left. Lord Tabor and Uncle Benjamin had headed east, back toward Redstone. Luke’s Aunt Emma, Degory and Joya had entered Marston and gone to the inn.
“Why would they go back?” Hugh asked.
“Tabor would prefer to die defending the king,” Luke said.
“But Uncle Benjamin, leaving Aunt Emma?”
“It’s his bridge. He’s mayor. He likely had no intention of staying here. He rode along to make sure Emma was safe. Now he can defend his home.” Luke turned his horse to the right, toward the inn. “Let’s check on the ladies, and I would have a word with the killer’s woman. We may be able to learn the bastard’s name, at the least.”
The inn was bustling, large for the size of the village because Marston was on the way to a market town. Its thatched roof, checker boarded with fresh repairs and its swept walkways suggested cleanliness, and a guard was posted at the front entrance, his expression welcoming but observant, all signs of a well-managed inn. Luke was encouraged that Joya and his aunt would be safe here.
He rested his hands on the counter. His glove had shrunk tight on the wound, which had started swelling, but it was best to keep the blood hidden. A young man guarded the keys, his eyes wary, his cheeks so doughy his mouth seemed to hide under the swells of skin.
“Good eve.” Luke said, keenly aware that darkness had fallen. He had precious little time. He should be on the road back to Redstone.
The clerk’s gaze swept over his armor and he glanced toward another guard, who came closer. “We’ll have no trouble here.”
“Rest assured, you won't,” Luke said. “We’re here to see our aunt, part of the Bonwyk party. They arrived this afternoon.”
“From whence do you hail?”
“I am Luke Bonwyk, Lord Penry, Somerset. And my brother, Hugh.”
“Abovestairs, second door to the left,” he said.
“One room? There are two women and a man,” Hugh said.
“Two women and three men,” the clerk said. “Two knights and a man about your age. The men have the room to the left of them.”
Luke pounded on both doors and received no response at either one. He asked the doughy youth at the desk for a key, but he refused to give one.
Luke could imagine Joya’s big brown eyes as she promised her father she’d stay at the inn. Tabor may have forgotten the apricot seeds, but Peter likely hadn’t. “Let’s check the stables.”
The stable boy delivered more bad news. “Aye, I saw them. The young lady is quite comely, she…” He gla
nced at Luke and his smile faded. “They wasn’t long, even with all those bags. They no sooner went to the inn than they came back again, bags and all. Packed their horses and left.”
“Unescorted?” Luke asked.
“Nay. A merchant and two knights were with them.”
“Deg, Peter and Martin,” Hugh said. “Did they say where they were going?”
The boy shook his head. “Nay.” He cocked his head to one side. “Wait. They spoke of a bridge, but not by name.”
Luke flipped the boy a penny. “Do you remember seeing a knight with very short hair, shorn almost bald?”
“Aye. He’s big, isn’t he? He’s soft on Lizbeth. She’s big, too. Well, I mean, her—” He cupped his hands at his chest, swaying them and grinning at his clever hint about her physical charms.
“Might you recall his name? We made a wager, and he owes me.”
The boy sobered. “Winton Hawke. Lord Clavell. But he left for good this time,” he said. “Lizbeth is vexed.”
Luke flipped him another penny. “For your mum.”
“My thanks!”
“What now?” Hugh asked.
Luke closed his eyes. The moon was rising. God’s teeth! Joya and Aunt Emma traveling at night to Redstone. Accompanied by knights, but what good were they in the face of armies?
Hours later Luke and Hugh arrived in Redstone, not having seen Joya and her party. For once, seeing the bridge brought Luke no pleasure. Foresooth, the bridge that had brought him so much joy as a child now looked more like a gate to danger.
The sun was just rising, and Redstone had become a spectacle of war.
To the north, the steep hill that led to Coventry was red with Lancastrian forces. They spilled up and over the hill like blood, past the crest and beyond, and down the riverbank to the east and west of the bridge as far as the eye could see.
To the south, the gentle hill and the road that led to St. Albans and London was alive with horses, archers, foot soldiers, wagons, and glaring white banners. The white extended like a giant sheet to the east and west of the riverbanks.
I’m too late. Luke thought of a hundred paths he hadn’t taken and should have—things he didn’t say and should have, secrets he hadn’t shared and should have.
