by Janet Lane
“Shh. She won’t find out, and I take the herbs so I shan’t be singing lullabies.” She lowered her voice, “Wilson has knowing hands like this Lord Tabor.” She left with a light giggle.
Sharai set to work on the split seam. Wilson stayed, waiting to escort her safely to her tent.
His face and hair made him look like the losing rival in a cockfight, but his body appeared fit and clean. She dared a glimpse of his hands and then looked up.
He met her glance, smiled in a self-satisfied manner, and performed a perfunctory check at the door.
Her neck heated, and she cleared her throat. “Just a couple more stitches, Wilson, and I’ll be done.”
“Aye. The ale is dwindling, I fear,” he hinted.
He’s eager to be with Jennamine. What did they all know that she did not? She remembered the noble’s rough hands, tearing her skirt, the pain, the bruises. Mating was a coarse, savage act, and she’d kill the man who tried to touch her.
She stitched nimbly, closing the seam, and the yellow fabric blurred. She saw him again in her memory, the handsome Lord Tabor. Tabor. It sounded clean and sharp, like the angles of his face beneath his thick, dark hair. Tall, just enough muscle to be strong but not so much as to resemble a bull. He moved with a cat’s grace. Were it not for his pale skin and height, she would think him a Gypsy, too.
Mayhaps he was not like the others.
Something about him seemed familiar, yet so beguiling; surely she would have remembered meeting him before. So bold, the way he flipped the coin down her neckline, and the intimacy of his glance caused her breath to come with difficulty, as if the forest faeries had cast magic upon her. The vulgar men with their lewd gestures and suggestive grins faded, and she could see only Tabor’s eyes. . . .
“Ouch!” She sucked her finger, tasting blood. “Cursed needles.”
* * * * *
“Here, milord. A fresh towel for your jaw.”
Tabor pushed the cool cloth to his face, which still ached from yester eve’s bashing at the Gypsy stage. “My thanks, Cyrill.”
“Have you broken your fast?”
“Aye, the reeves tossed me a slab of bacon and bread.”
“So, how was your night in the tollbooth?”
“You’ve spent your share of nights in such places. You know well how it was. Cold dirt floor. Mice. Bugs. I simply wanted to talk to her. A pox on Curtis for holding me.”
“You did seem, um, determined.”
“Merely to talk.”
Cyrill laughed. “Shall I send for her?”
“Nay. I would visit with her in my own time.” He tossed the wet towel on the table. “Now I must pay for the horses and find a seamstress for Lady Anne. For the harvest festival.”
Brushing his mustache, Cyrill stopped mid-stroke. “With the alarming shortage of funds, your mother insists on holding the festival?”
“Appearances. She craves acceptance. After Hungerford’s slurs on our ancestors, I can sympathize. First he stole our treasury, then our dignity.”
“Sweet misery, Tabor.”
“No lectures. I’m capable. I shall prove it to my mother and all at Coin Forest.”
“But such waste—”
“My mother must look her best for the festival. I’m off to find a seamstress. We meet at two bells for bowls. Au revoir.”
At ten bells, Tabor paid for his horses, a palfrey for his mother and two war horses he’d need for his campaign against Hungerford, and left the livestock pens. The grey morning was filled with the smell of fresh straw and the noise of squawking geese and pigs. Men hustled, pulling tarps, still wet with dew, from their booths. The air itself seemed rich with life and hope, for income from this fair would take these farmers through the coming winter.
Tabor reached the cloth merchants and, after making some inquiries about a reliable seamstress, learned of the best one at the fair.
Sharai. Again she surprised him.
On inquiry, Curtis advised that Sharai was creative and skilled with the needle, but warned that she would not take an outside commission due to her loyalty to Etti.
Tabor would find out for himself.
He approached Sharai’s tent, deciding he would not tell her about his deception as the wounded peasant, Arthur, five years ago when he sought refuge in Etti’s tent. Or that he knew of her failed plan to marry a noble.
It would embarrass her and she would never accept his offer of employment.
Then there was the issue of her competence. He would have her sew a gown and see for himself her level of proficiency.
He caught his first glimpse of her in the tent. Her braid hung over her shoulder, past her waist. He remembered her on stage, her hair loose and flowing, and his body responded. He chided himself. She was just that skinny, scrappy little girl, grown up. Five years ago she saved his life. He would be pleased now to offer her honorable employment, a chance to leave that tawdry stage and stay decently clothed, by gad.
Kadriya ran from her dove’s cage in the far corner of the tent. “He’s here.”
“Quick, Sprig. Go you out for a bit. I’ll be fine.”
“All right. But I’ll stay close by.”
Sharai shooed her and took a position behind a stack of fabric bolts, her hand buried in her pocket, stroking the markings on the crown. I will never be sold again. If he wanted more than a dance, she would return his coin. She would sell baskets and dances, but not herself.
He entered the open tent, the top of his head brushing the ceiling until he neared the center poles. His dark hair, cut short at the sides, fell to his collar in the back, and a bruise decorated his freshly shaven face at the jaw line.
His form-fitting green doublet revealed a trim body and strong shoulders, but the lining did not lie smooth at the neckline. She could do much better. The tailoring flaw was counterbalanced, though, by his brown hose and elegant girdle, from which a money pouch and jeweled dagger hung. The bulging moneybag reminded her of his position, and her own.
She raised her chin and faced him, eye to eye. “Good morn, Lord Tabor.”
His lips curved in an inviting smile. “And to you, Sharai. You know me, then?”
Against her will her eyes strayed to his large hands. “Your reputation precedes you.”
“Aye, as does yours.” He knelt down to examine one of the lower bolts of brown wool. “Your skills as a seamstress come highly recommended.”
He’d come on business. Though sewing paid little compared to the dancing, Sharai needed every coin she could gather for Etti.
She assumed her business manner and let the crown drop to the bottom of her pocket. Needing support, she rested her hand on the top bolt. “What do you need?” She regretted her choice of words as they passed her lips.
He lowered his head to hide a smile and then raised his lashes, looking up at her.
The skin at her throat awakened, tingling down to her breasts.
“I seek your services on behalf of my mother, Lady Anne. She would like a houppelande with matching headdress. Silk.” He browsed the fabric bolts. “Blue.” He rose to standing. “The same hue as the gown you wore yester eve.”
She met his eyes and a trembling struck her chest, as if her drummer held his drum before her and pounded hard. His brown eyes betrayed his calm features, for there burned a fire inside them, and she heard the echo of Diana’s husky voice mocking her, “Yearning. I saw yearning.”
She turned away, realizing too late from his expression that she had revealed the same to him.
Sharai fussed with the selvage on the black wool. “Do you have a style in mind?”
“I have a drawing.” He produced a sketch on paper.
Accepting the paper, she extended her hand too far and their hands touched.
Heat whispered on her skin and she jerked her hand back. The sketch was primitive, but clear. His mother wanted the newer styled, wider sleeves. “Excuse me. I think I have the perfect bolt of blue for her.”
She ducked behind
a worktable. Gather your wits, Sharai. He’s a noble. Noble, noble, noble. You’re naught but a hunk of bear meat to him. He’s comely, but at heart like all the others. Clutching the blue silk, she breathed deeply and marched out to show it to him.
She dropped it on the table. “Will this do?” She piled another bolt, a deeper blue, on top. “And this for trim. Or would you prefer an ivory?”
“Let me see.” He pulled the bottom blue bolt free and unwound the fabric, letting it drape in folds on the table. “The color is good. It will bring out her eyes.”
Surprised, Sharai stepped back. Women might inspect the fabrics, but men generally pointed at a color, stood for measurements and left.
He unwound at least three ells of it. “May I? Just to see how it falls.” Careful to not let it brush on the ground, he draped it over her shoulders, letting the fabric slide through his fingers. “Nice weight.” He focused on her eyes, then followed the drape line from her shoulders to her toes. “Perfection. And I must say, your performance last night was such, as well. You’re beautiful.”
She collected the fabric and took it from him. “I trow not your intentions. You doubtless have no mother named Lady Anne, and you need no houppelande.”
“Certes I do. I’m in need of any and all of your skills.”
“And pray what does that mean?”
“Your dance is bewitching. You have skills with a needle, and I should like to hire you to sew for me. And if you have skills in pleasuring, which I daresay you must, given the way you dance,” he said, his voice caressing, “then I should like to negotiate with your manager. The wild one with the torn eye.”
Egad, he thought Wilson arranged . . . she gestured the insult away. He was like all the rest. Why had she let down her defenses? “Get you gone.” She slapped the crown in his hand. “And take your money with you. It cannot buy that which you seek.”
He stroked his bruised jaw and smiled. “You’ve changed.”
What did he find so cursed amusing? “You speak in riddles. Be gone.”
“As you wish. But I’ll need it in two days.”
His grin stirred her to new anger. “What?”
“My mother’s dress. Blue is perfect. She’s this much shorter than me,” he gestured, “and she weighs ten stones, but don’t let on to her I told you.”
“Two days? And no measurements? I cannot—”
“I’ll make it worth your while. You do sell your tailoring skills, do you not?” He gave her an innocent smile. “See you on the stage.” He pulled something from his pouch and tossed it high in the air.
Instinctively, she caught it and opened her hand. Her ankle bell.
She looked up, but he’d already left.
Chapter Four
Well past Sharai’s tent, Tabor slowed his steps. He wished to go back and unspeak the words that had upset her. Should not a woman who craved silver above all else be pleased to be offered silver? Like Aurora, his mother—forsooth all women; they said one thing and meant another.
Now he’d stirred her anger and risked his chances of hiring her as his mother’s seamstress.
Curse his impulsiveness. Time and again his father had chided him about it, held William up as the example of calm thought, while Tabor . . . well, Tabor’s brain always responded one step behind his fist. Or mouth. “You have no self-restraint, Richard,” his father would say. And then he’d look at William and sigh and likely wonder where his wife had erred in rearing his second son.
So now Tabor may never hold those long, dark curls in his hands.
The flap-lidded man did not manage her. Could they be lovers? Nay. He refused to believe it. Sharai was beautiful enough to catch the eye of any craftsman at the fair. Even the goldsmiths. Aye, they would be at the stage tonight and see her.
He shook his head. What am I thinking? She’s just a dancer. A Gypsy. No need for him to meddle. He would control this strange impulse he had to carry her home. The little temptress would be naught but trouble.
But why did she return my coin?
Pain stabbed his middle back. He turned, protecting his face.
A Gypsy girl of six or seven summers stood, her hands loaded with stones and braced for another throw. Her eyes flashed in anger, and her brown hair shone with golden highlights.
“Stop it. Who are you?”
“Kadriya.”
The little girl from five years ago.
“’Tis true what they say about nobles,” she said.
“And what pray tell is that?”
“Your skull is as thick as tree bark. She was happy to see you. Then you hurt her.”
“I offered her employment.”
“Sharai does not pleasure. Why do you not know?”
“I—”
“Do not hurt her like the other noble.” She narrowed her eyes. “Or I will cut you with my dagger.”
Tabor approached cautiously. “I understand. She’s fortunate to have you for a friend. I have no plans to hurt her.”
“She wants the count to leave her alone, and she wants you. . . .” Her words trailed off, and two lines of puzzlement appeared between her eyes.
“What does she want from me?”
She shrugged, gave him a final glare, and ran away.
* * * * *
At three bells, Tabor strode, pleased, from the bowling courts. With precious metals the goldsmiths were sure of hand, but with the subtle bumps and valleys in which the bowling stones must roll to the feather, they were not as skilled. Earlier, Tabor had placed modest wagers against the clock makers to familiarize himself with the courts before taking on the goldsmiths. Time well spent, he thought, patting his money pouch.
His gaming had netted him horses, armor, barrels, and pitch. To celebrate, he stopped at the food booths and bought an egg-shaped marchpane, a French confection. Savoring the sweet, he approached the monks’ booth, where three wooden cases of books rested, sheltered under an awning from the rain. Tabor hoped one of them was an adventure or a new King Arthur tale. If so, he would rent one for his scribe to copy.
A crashing sound, followed by Sharai’s voice, drew his attention.
The monk’s booth was located just to the south of the Gypsy stage. Tabor turned in that direction.
Sharai said something, short. He couldn’t understand the language, but her inflection, usually strong, was weakened by fear, or uncertainty.
A man spoke, the voice dry, the words crisp. Count Aydin. Whatever he said was curtly stated. A command.
Sharai said something about dancing.
Aydin lowered his voice. Whatever he was saying, he didn’t like having to say it, and it sounded like a complaint.
Sharai answered decisively.
Tabor cursed his ignorance of their language. Clearly an argument, but—
The count issued another command, his anger increasing, his speech becoming staccato.
Silence.
The count asked a question.
Sharai answered, more control in her voice.
The count spoke again and, though the words were incomprehensible, the message was clear. He mentioned dancing again, and the word “king,” and Kadriya’s name. He was threatening her.
Sharai responded with a plea, her voice suddenly vulnerable, and she mentioned Etti’s name.
Another edict from the count.
Tabor caught a glimpse of him, stalking toward the ale barrels, his red cloak unfurling.
An urge rose in Tabor to step on that cape and cause the count to choke himself. His appetite gone, Tabor tossed the remainder of his marchpane to a roving dog and hastily selected his books. Sharai may be shallow and wild, but she had saved his life five years ago, and now it was Tabor’s turn to help her. He’d see Etti and get some answers.
He found Etti with a silversmith, being fitted for rings. Her braided black hair rested on her red smock, worn over a green skirt. An ivory shawl draped across her shoulders. She sat, straight and proud as a queen at court, and Tabor was struck again at ho
w these landless wanderers could possess such elegance. Outside they owned naught, unabashed beggars, yet inside their hearts they were serene and confident.
Etti carried no official title within her tribe, but she enjoyed considerable business success with her dancers, which bode well for the Gypsy tribe as a whole, because marshals from the larger fairs welcomed them—so long as they camped a distance from the church and established merchants, and agreed to break camp before the bishop arrived.
Etti had been Tabor’s friend ever since she’d read his palm many summers past, when she traced his lifeline and saw strength and good fortune.
She greeted him with a smile, slipped a bold silver ring on her finger, and they walked along the crest of the hill overlooking Winchester’s great cathedral.
“Count Aydin’s been with us two years,” she responded in answer to his question. “He’s a good leader. After we found the English fairs, Aydin discovered ways to learn the schedules in advance, learned which divisions of goods were to be offered during the fair run. That helped us know when the most valuable goods—and most wealthy patrons—would be there.
“He’s done the same for us at Troyes and Reims.”
Tabor nodded grudgingly. Those were the largest fairs in France. That explained why he’d missed seeing Etti and Sharai in St. Giles the last several years. “I served in Calais. Fought in Normandy with the Duke of Bedford. It’s dangerous there.”
“Which is why we’re here. You English may have burned Joan of Arc, but the French still whisper her name and hold her in their hearts. When you dragged your boy king to Paris and crowned him King of France, they were fit to kill. The French will crown their dauphin. They’re far from being defeated, mark my words.” Etti stopped walking. “But you didn’t come to talk politics. What troubles you?”
“The count’s power. What is his role with the Gypsies? From what I overheard today, he is a . . . king?”
“Aye. Whether we’re in France or England we rule our own, separate from the king’s or church’s courts.”
“He controls legal issues?”
“Aye, and any quarrels.”
“So he has absolute power in your tribe?”
She raised an eyebrow, her eyes bright with mischief. “Nothing is absolute, is it, Tabor? But yes, his orders must be obeyed.”
