Tabor's Trinket

by Janet Lane

  Tabor’s Trinket

  Lord Tabor wants to wed an escaped Gypsy slave, but if he defies the king by doing so, he may as well fall on his sword.

  It is 1435, and Tabor doesn’t mind playing the Arranged Marriage card in order to save his lands--until he’s enchanted by the beautiful escaped slave-turned-dancer, Sharai, who’s bright and observant enough to know life in a nunnery would be safer than being his mistress. While Sharai avoids a possessive Gypsy king who lusts for her, Tabor navigates the treacherous political waters preceding the War of the Roses in an effort to save their love.

  Tabor’s Trinket

  (Book 1 of the Coin Forest series)

  Copyright © 2006, 2014 by Janet Lane

  eBook Cover art Copyright by Jalena Penaligon

  All rights reserved.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by an electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Set in 12 pt. Times New Roman.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Also by Janet Lane –

  Tabor’s Trinket (Book 1 of the Coin Forest series)

  Emerald Silk (Book 2 of the Coin Forest series)

  Traitor’s Moon (Book 3 of the Coin Forest Series,)

  Bridge of Hope (working title) – Book 4 of the Coin Forest series

  Estimated Release: May, 2016

  “It’s About Time,” a short story and part of the

  Mistwillow anthology, RMFW Press

  Broken Links, Mended Lives, an anthology

  Upcoming book release news at:

  www.janetlane.net

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Author’s Note

  About the Anagram

  Acknowledgments

  Contact Janet

  Sneak Peak: Emerald Silk, Fall 2014 Kindle

  Reviews: Emerald Silk

  Reviews: Tabor’s Trinket

  Book Club Discussion Topics

  Chapter One

  Marseilles, France, 1426

  The sound of strangers’ voices woke Sharai. Ropes binding her feet, she stumbled upright and stood on tiptoe, peering outside the forecastle at the bow of the slave ship.

  Dawn. Seagulls called, circling the limp sail that flapped around the main mast. Below that, a blackbird pecked at the body of the slave, Zameel, draped over a coil of ropes, his forehead white with maggots. His neck bulged, black with grotesque knots, more proof that this was no nightmare, that she was, in fact, an unwilling passenger on a ship of slaves and death.

  Sharai’s mother stirred, her eyelids red and swollen. “Ves’ tacha,” she rasped in Romani. My beloved. “What is it, my little Faerie?”

  “Shh.” Sharai put her fingers gently to her mother’s lips.

  “. . . and touch nothing!” A man’s voice commanded from outside the ship on the port side. Heavy footsteps sounded as men jumped on board. “If anyone still lives, kill them.”

  Fresh terror seized her chest. All the crew and slaves had died, all but Sharai, her mother, and the captain, who lay still at her feet. He had been delirious these last few days, but still able to navigate to Marseilles where he had planned to sell forty healthy slaves.

  Sharai checked the captain but he didn’t stir, nor did he breathe. He must have died during the night. She pulled his dagger from a sheath at his side. Its blade had been recently sharpened and its ivory handle had been delicately carved with a bird in flight. She gripped it tightly.

  Footsteps sounded on deck and she knelt by her mother. “Feign dead,” Sharai whispered. Not a hard task, for they were close to it. The bug-ridden biscuits had run out days ago, and they had been living on ale, wine, and rancid meat.

  “Mother of God,” exclaimed a man. “Slaves. Gypsy slaves, dozens of them.”

  “There’s more below deck,” said another. “What stench!” He gagged and retched, and the dull splashing of vomit followed.

  Sharai’s throat constricted from the sound and a cockroach crawled up her neck, but she willed herself to remain still.

  “See the lumps. Plague!”

  “Get off the ship! Burn it!”

  Liquid splattered on the deck, followed by a whooshing sound. The rope ladder creaked and the men’s voices diminished.

  Sharai risked checking. “They have gone.” Using the captain’s fine dagger she severed the ropes that bound her and her mother’s feet. “The shoreline is but a hundred yards away. We must swim to safety.”

  “Curse Murat,” her mother said of Sharai’s uncle, who had betrayed them. “I cannot swim, Faerie,” she said. “I have no strength. Go without me.”

  “Never!” She lifted her mother’s chin. “I will help you.”

  “You are but eight summers. I will drown you. Go!”

  Sharai half-carried, half-dragged her mother down the ladder from the forecastle to the main deck. She grabbed a small wine barrel and dumped it, and the musty odor of tainted wine filled the air. “I cannot leave you here,” she told her mother, and handed her the empty barrel. “Hold onto this and you will stay afloat.”

  Wind whipped their faces with the stench of burning flesh and the heat of hell. Rushing past the flames, they climbed over the railing. Sharai slashed the last remnant of rope from her ankles and dove into the water, imploring the good spirits for safety.

  * * * * *

  Hampshire, England, August 1430

  His chest wound throbbing, Richard Ellingham, younger brother of William, Baron Tabor, leaned against the metal gate leading into the armory. The tang of blood and burned hair blended with the odor of rusting metal. Coin Forest Castle was under siege, and uncertainty burned into his flesh as surely as the pitch-laden arrows had. He fought the darkness that came in waves and threatened to carry him away.

  Cyrill, his knight, fell against Richard, his lined face creased in pain. “The Hungerford knights have breached the curtain. God's blood, and your father barely cold in his grave.”

  Richard steadied him. “Their claim is false, but their swords are not.”

  Richard's brother, William, hurried down the steps to join them, his expression lacking all traces of his usual confidence. At twenty-one, he was short but able-bodied, a fitting lord of the castle. “All is lost.”

  Richard rested a hand on his brother’s armored shoulder. “We did our best. We must leave. To the tunnel,” he said. “Now.”

  “Can’t.” William backed against the stone wall. “They’ve cut us off.”

  “Then the armory.” Richard opened the gate. “Come on!”

  William rushed ahead and a dozen of their men hurried
into the armory, the sight of their gold and green livery reassuring.

  Aurora, his brother's wife, ran to Richard, grabbing his arm. Her red hair tangled past her shoulders and fear glittered in her eyes. “They've taken the keep!”

  A rush of forbidden love pulsed to the surface. Richard would wrap his arms around her, shield her from the fear, but as always he honored his brother and held back. He took her arm to guide her. “You must hide.” Despite her protests, he pushed her behind a shelf of broken armor, stuffing the folds of her skirt behind the wood.

  She struggled. “I’m going with you.”

  “We’re outnumbered. Stay here. Be silent.”

  Across the chamber, Cyrill and his men swung the gate shut.

  Behind them the enemy's footfalls echoed in the stairwell as they clambered down from the great hall. One knight slipped on the stairs, made wet from the rains. The knave recovered and joined the rest of them, a wall of black and white liveried knights. They turned their shoulders against the gate, ramming it to keep Richard's men from homing the lock. The black and white devils broke through and the gate collapsed. Grunts and shouts of pain from both sides echoed in the damp chamber.

  Three of the attackers advanced into the armory, downing four of the defending knights, leaving less than a dozen to hold the castle.

  From the adjoining, smaller chamber William appeared, driven backward by Rauf, Hungerford's son, more evil by far than his father. Metal clanged and Rauf's sword struck William's flesh with a wet thud. William's armor broke free at the shoulder and exposed his hauberk, glistening with blood, and a second knight advanced on him.

  A primitive shout filled the chamber, and Richard recognized it as his own. He ran to his brother, sword at the ready, but the narrow doorway offered no room to swing it. He shoved his sword sideways, blocking the tall knight's attack on William.

  Richard drew his dagger and cleaved it into the tall knight's neck.

  The Hungerford knight froze. His sword, poised to strike William, dropped from his hand and he fell.

  The meaty faced Rauf swung again at William, missing.

  William smashed an armored fist into Rauf's face, driving him back. “Thanks, brother.” William lunged forward, following the press of enemy knights to the fireplace.

  Richard saw movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned and a swinging mace rushed toward him.

  He ducked.

  The mace grazed his face, shaking his skull and jolting Richard into a dull senselessness. Blood pumped down his face. He fell, and the stone floor punished him, cold and unyielding. Death would come to him on this day. Blackness overwhelmed him.

  A firm hand pulled at him. “Richard. We must away.” His knight, Cyrill.

  Richard managed to lift an eyelid. His stiff limbs made movement difficult, but he was still alive.

  He listened, hearing no more clanging of armor. Torches hissed, and somewhere nearby metal scraped on stone. The sick sweet smell of blood mixed with the stench of sweat, and pain throbbed like devil's fire in his ears and teeth.

  The fighting had stopped. Gingerly touching his left eye, he found it swollen shut. Of the Coin Forest men, only Cyrill was with him. Richard looked past him, deeper into the chamber. Black and white clad bodies littered the floor, but there was one, a stout one, in gold and green. One of theirs. Richard crawled to his side. His brother, William.

  “Nay!” He gestured to Cyrill. “Give me light!” He raised his brother's head, but William's gaze was unseeing. A part of him had hated William for taking Aurora from him, but Richard loved his brother. Gone in his arms. Sweet Mary. Richard closed his eyes to stop the pain.

  “Help me.” Aurora’s voice was tight with pain.

  Richard gently rested William’s head on the floor and hurried to the skirted form on the floor in the corner.

  Aurora rolled to her side. Her hair pressed against her neck, matted with blood. In the torchlight he caught the muted green in her eyes, framed with a sheen of tears.

  He propped her with his left arm. He moved her hand from her side, saw her life's blood pumping down her bodice.

  Fresh pain sliced through him. Not her. No.

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry.”

  “No. No apologies.” Despite his love for her, she had chosen William instead of him.

  She offered her hand and he took it. A tremulous sigh slipped between her parted lips. Her head dropped, and her hand relaxed in his.

  He felt love slipping away, and his breath caught. “No!”

  Her suffering over, she sank back on his arm.

  Richard tried to swallow the pain that stuck in his throat like a sharp rock. He smoothed Aurora's curls back from her face and closed her eyes, laying her head gently on the stone floor. He took a breath so deep it caused his chest to throb again.

  He looked around the keep, at the blood soaked bodies and fallen swords. Could he have prevented this slaughter? He'd sensed trouble coming from that pig Hungerford and had tried to warn his brother. “I should have been more insistent that William increase the guards. I should have kept after him.”

  Footsteps clamored on the stairwell above. More men coming.

  “Don’t blame yourself,” Cyrill said. “We must go.”

  “I cannot leave her.”

  “You must. Hungerford’s men were called above, but they’ll be back soon. We can access the tunnel now.”

  Richard stumbled down the circular steps, past the storehouse and treasury and into the dungeon.

  Just a handful of his men were waiting there.

  Richard gestured toward a small, inconspicuous hallway. “Follow me.” The hall led to an inner chamber. Aided by the knights, Richard moved the stone that blocked the doorway. He met the loyal gazes of his four remaining men, their brows glistening with sweat and blood beneath their armor. “Go.”

  They squeezed past the stone, their torches flickering in the revealed passageway. Behind them, they pushed the stone shut, closing the exit.

  The low tunnel smelled of wet earth and mildew, and a chill brushed his face with each step.

  Cyrill stabbed the torch into the darkness.

  Spider webs snagged Richard's face. He brushed them off, moaning from the pain of touching his burned skin. He stumbled again, and sharp stones tore at his shoulder. “My eyes.” Even his good one had swollen shut.

  Cyrill placed Richard's hand on his shoulder. “Hold on.”

  One foot in front of another. Uneven steps, slippery footing, floor muddied from the heavy summer rains.

  Occasional drips of water, the light splattering sounds of scurrying rats.

  “The passageway is narrowing. Take care,” Cyrill warned.

  Richard fought the dizziness. Through the pounding of his head he sensed the tunnel dropping steeply.

  Cyrill halted. “Bloody pox.”

  Richard pulled his eyelid open to see. Ahead of them, water sparkled off the torch's light. “God's bones. The rains have flooded the passage.”

  “We're trapped.” Cyrill walked knee deep into the water. “’Tis a steep bank down.”

  Richard looked back the way they had come. “Hungerford's men are closing in. There's no going back.” Richard removed his damaged breastplate, then his helm and leg guards. He nodded to Cyrill and the others to do the same.

  Shed of their armor, they stood facing the lazy sparkle of light that wriggled, mesmerizing, on the black water's surface.

  Cyrill's breath came in shallow puffs. “How long before the path rises again so we can breathe?”

  Richard stared at their inky obstacle, swirling, taunting him for his hesitation. “I don’t remember.”

  The youngest knight, John, stepped forward, his yellow hair matted with blood and sweat. “Don’t try it. William's gone, so you’re Lord of Coin Forest now, Richard. We can’t lose you, too.”

  Cyrill stepped forward. “He's right, my lord. You’re the last son, the last hope.” His knight rested his hand on his shoulder. “Richa
rd, Baron of Tabor. Lord Tabor.”

  Tabor. Richard felt of a sudden older than his nineteen years. “If we don’t escape soon, we’ll be dead and in a place where titles don’t matter.”

  His greying eyebrows furrowed, Cyrill looked to him for a decision.

  The sound of clanging armor echoed in the darkness from which they'd come. Enemy knights swarmed closer, thick as hounds on a downed boar. To remain would be suicide.

  Torchlight danced across the water, a winking surface that masked the perils that might lie beneath. Guards routinely checked the tunnel, but they had never reported flooding. The skies had spilled rain for more than a sennight, and now this. He regarded his sword, the curved handle, crafted for his large hands, the fine blade. “This will weigh me down.” He placed it in a niche above the rough stones and hoped to reclaim it someday.

  He gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile to his knights. “Time for baptism, men.” Taking a deep, painful breath, he sank into the dark water.

  * * * * *

  At next morning's first light, they reached St. Giles’ Fair, just outside Winchester. Cyrill led Tabor to a bed in a large storage tent near the Gypsy dancers’ wagons. Three knights had refused to swim the flooded tunnel and stayed back to fight to their deaths. Tabor, Cyrill, and John made it through the tunnel to safety and then traveled through the night to the large fair where desperate men could disappear amid the crowds of buyers, sellers, and thieves.

  Cyrill pulled the blanket from the bed and gestured to Tabor to lie down. “Rest now.” At thirty and five, grey had claimed Cyrill’s temples and brows, but his eyes reflected strength. And raw worry.

  Though the ceiling tarp dripped and the ground had been muddied from the rains, the tent was spacious, with a small fire pit in the middle of the floor. Crude ropes strung at eye level sagged with the burden of colorful fabrics. A half-dozen chests cluttered the corner, apparently moved to make room for the bed that awaited him by the far wall. The air smelled of wet wood and the faded evening's ashes.