Tabor's Trinket

by Janet Lane

  “Or?”

  “Or he can fine, punish, or throw out those who defy him.”

  “What of Sharai?”

  “Ah, Sharai. She has grown into a beautiful woman, no?”

  “I could see it five years ago, but I never dreamt she would be so captivating. What happened to her parents?”

  “Both dead before I met her. She comes from Lipscani, in Wallachia. I met her in Marseilles. She was eight and just a heartbeat from death.” A gentle smile curved her lips. “She’s a strong girl.”

  “No family whatsoever?”

  “No.”

  Tabor recalled Sharai’s words years ago. “All has been lost,” she had said. Guilt needled him over his hasty judgment.

  “So, no,” Etti continued. “No family.”

  “Except Kadriya?”

  “Kadriya’s only half Gypsy. Father ran off before he knew he’d become one. Kadriya was a baby when Sharai took her in. After the mother died.”

  Tabor stopped walking. Impetuous and grasping as she was, Sharai had opened her heart—and purse strings—to an orphan. The count had threatened Sharai about Kadriya. “Why does she dance?”

  “That should be plain to you, who struggles with his coin. We all have to live somehow. Sharai uses her gifts.”

  “Of course. But can the Count stop her from dancing?”

  “Where did you hear this?” A sharp edge formed in her voice, and Tabor wondered if it came from fear for Sharai, or concern over lost income.

  “They argued loudly on the stage. He threatened her.”

  “Fie! He wants Sharai to wife. She must decide.”

  To wife. He’d thought of Sharai with a rich nobleman, but the thought was vague, it had no face or personality. A sensation passed through Tabor, one he couldn’t name, but it left a feeling of unease and a need to act. “I think she has decided. She doesn’t want him.” He hesitated. “Does she refuse the count because of the flap-lidded man who collects her coins?”

  Etti raised both her brows. “Wilson? He guards the dancers and is forbidden to touch them.”

  Relieved, he continued. “She saved my life. I want to repay her, and there is a way we can help each other. I need a seamstress to prepare for the Feast of St. Michael.”

  “That’s more than a month away. We leave for France before then.”

  “It could become a permanent position.” The offer spilled out of his mouth, surprising him. “Aydin is trying to break her will. I may not understand their language, but I heard the possessiveness and the threats in his voice. I would save her from that fate.”

  “Why?”

  “She saved my life. I am indebted.”

  “So you wish to buy her services through September. Or longer?”

  “Until Michaelmas at the earliest. ’Twould seem like a good exchange for both parties. My mother will have fine clothes for her festival, and the count cannot force himself on Sharai.”

  “So you are prepared to make an offer, then.”

  Tabor hesitated. If Curtis, the fair marshal, spoke the truth, Sharai gave most of her earnings to Etti. Likely Sharai felt obliged to pay Etti in return for taking her in at Marseilles. More proof of her honor—at least toward women. Tabor estimated what Sharai might earn with her dancing. He would offer half.

  “No bargains,” Etti warned.

  “I’m taxed for funds, as you well know.” Tabor spoke carefully. He had witnessed the shrewd negotiating powers of the Gypsies firsthand, at horse fairs and at the markets. If he showed weakness, she would turn him in his own grease for the roasting.

  “She will surpass your hopes,” Etti promised, beginning the negotiations. “Sharai’s the best seamstress I’ve seen outside of London. She’s a treasure.”

  You know my position, Etti. Hungerford has—”

  “I know, I know. You struggle.” She pointed at his money pouch. “Your winnings today?”

  Instinct brought his hand to his coins. “Aye.”

  “Sharai is a very special woman.”

  “Aye, but I think not of her in that way. I am obliged to her because she saved my life. For that, I wish to protect her.”

  “She craves security, and respect.”

  “Respect I can give her.” He thought of his land woes. “Security is not so easy for any of us, I am afeared.”

  “Will she be safe with you?”

  “She saved my life. I swear by my patron saint Monica, I will protect her.”

  She opened the ornate basket she carried and held it out. “Then count me your coins.”

  “What mean you?”

  “You can have Sharai’s services through your Harvest Festival for the precise amount in your money pouch, now.”

  Tabor winced. He had let her get the upper hand.

  “You hesitate.”

  “Indeed. I still need implements for the harvest.”

  “Good things come dear,” Etti countered.

  “I cannot.”

  “Very well.”

  They walked in silence. Tabor tried shrugging it off. He’d done the best he could, but the woman’s demands were impossible. He had debts. Responsibilities.

  Sharai. Sharai. Her name sounded in his head with each step he took. Etti was grasping and unreasonable.

  He must help her. “I need to keep two pounds.”

  “And the Pope needs sinners, and he always finds a way,” she countered. Her eyes gleamed with the hunt.

  Tabor refused to be her prey. It was unreasonable, and he would have to walk away.

  A movement caught his eye. The Count, striding from the Gypsy camp, his features tight with anger. He wants Sharai to wife.

  A vision flickered in his memory—wide, almond eyes, bright with life and an enchanting blend of challenge and welcome that Tabor found sweet as a sunrise. He had noted the coldness in the Count’s eyes, the aggression as he’d grabbed Sharai’s wrist. Tabor shook his head and watched his hands as they seemed to move of their own accord, pouring coins and notes into Etti’s basket.

  Etti smiled and riffled through his winnings. “Twenty-two pounds, eight crowns, fourteen shillings, three pence.” She regarded him with a smile. “Not enough.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Not enough? God’s bones, woman, ’tis all.”

  She eyed his pouch. “I see another coin in there.”

  Gypsies. He checked the purse and retrieved the last coin. “You would take my last farthing?”

  “Aye. She’ll be worth every jot.”

  “But how can I cheap the fabric for Sharai to sew the gowns? Thanks to you, I haven’t a single farthing left.”

  “I grant you credit on ten bolts, your choice of fabric and color. That should dress your mother and a small army for your fine affair. Oh, and Tabor, one more thing.”

  “What?”

  “I told her of Arthur, that it was you, five summers ago. She knows now of your debt to her.”

  * * * * *

  Harry, Baron of Hungerford, passed the fair gate and proceeded to the tollhouse. He dismounted, giving the reins to his first knight.

  Thick-necked Curtis, the fair marshal, approached. “Good afternoon, Lord Hungerford, and welcome. You look well.”

  Hungerford scoffed. Liar. I look like what I am, a man broken by illness.

  Curtis gave an enthusiastic smile, doubtless trying to match the generosity of Hungerford’s earlier, private donation. “We didn’t expect you until the morrow.”

  “My business proceeded more smoothly than I had predicted.” In reality, Hungerford had arrived at precisely the right time because the land usurper’s son, Tabor, was still here. Blinking from a raindrop. he regarded the skies. “Rather grey day for a fair. Do you have sheltered diversions?”

  “Chips tables are covered, my lord. It so happens the young Tabor is there, trying his luck.”

  Hungerford gave him an approving nod.

  His knights staked their tents, set up the cots, and raised his black-and-white flag.

  Hungerfo
rd removed his cloak and rested on the cot, his muscles shaking from the day’s effort. At the least his cloak concealed his thin frame. He supposed he should feel fortunate to make it to forty and five in spite of his wretched muscles, which wasted away on his very bones. His condition worsened every day, and he wondered how long it would be before he could no longer stand. The sickness he contracted ten years ago had whitened his hair and slowly eroded his strength, and neither a physic nor any amount of rest, prayer, or church endowments had improved it.

  He felt time slipping away from him, yet the heir to the Tabors, those filthy thieves, still held Coin Forest Castle.

  His son, Rauf, entered. Beneath his doublet Rauf’s chest spread, tight with muscle, his legs sturdy and strong. Hungerford used to feel the warmth of pride that any father would experience, but it had dulled over the years into fear. His son was violent. Brutal.

  “Mayhaps you should rest. Your color is not good.”

  The ride had taxed him, and Hungerford rose with effort. “Nay. Tabor’s knights have arrived, and his party will leave at dawn. I need a public disturbance to report to the king.”

  “All this intrigue, for what? Why not kill him outright? His throat will slit cleanly, and that’ll be the end of it.”

  Lord Hungerford’s jaw tightened, and he wondered at the air between his son’s ears. “So Tabor can be killed without effort, can he? You’ve had two chances to do so and failed. Remember the Gypsy women? Stabbed by a little girl. And he’s evaded your traps since then.”

  An angry red crept up Rauf’s neck. “I was injured, and a half dozen of them—”

  “All women. Which sad outcome demonstrates the wisdom of my approach. I let you try your way when you stormed the castle.”

  “Aye, and we took it, did we not? And you still use the proceeds from his treasury to soften the king.”

  In an obtuse sort of way Rauf was right, but admitting it would only inflame his arrogance. “Our attacking Coin Forest reflected poorly on us. I’ve spent the last years regaining our dignity. Petitioning the king. Courting my cousin’s good will. Pursuing our legal rights.”

  Rauf scowled. “Dead, he has no rights.”

  “Think of your aunt’s disgrace.” He would never forget the look of disbelief in Margaret’s eyes when she was pulled from Coin Forest and imprisoned for practicing sorcery. Her brief marriage to Tabor’s father had been annulled, and Margaret had languished in prison for three years.

  “Tabor’s father stole the castle from her. We must take it back, but legally. He must be dispossessed, Rauf, as our family has been dispossessed. I have legal proof of Tabor’s unworthiness to own it.”

  “Is it? Legitimate proof, I mean.”

  “Do not split hairs. It’s acceptable legal proof, enough to sway the king’s council, and that’s all that counts. Now I need only taint his reputation with a public arrest, and we can make our case.” He grabbed his walking stick, elaborately carved and painted in black and white. “Let us go to the games tables. We shall see how hot the young Tabor can burn.”

  * * * * *

  Sharai passed the archery butts and bowling courts on her way to the covered games tables. The day was almost gone, and she had not yet made a sale because of the rain. If the customers would not circulate in the open air of the market booths, she would bring her wares to them.

  Straightening the oiled cloth over her basket again, she made sure it shielded the silk purses from the rain. No matter how small, Sharai saved every remnant from the costumes she made for the dancers. She cut the scraps into pleasing patterns and stitched them together to make the purses. At three pence, they sold well as a gift or memento of the fair.

  Since discovering that chess bystanders would purchase small items just to have her gone so they could return their attention to the match, the chess area was her favorite place to sell her purses.

  She could not believe it when she first saw men such as these, tossing their hard-earned coins so casually onto a table, knowing there was a good chance they would lose them. And what would they receive in return? A thin thrill that rides on the whisper of fear, fear they would lose it, and a logic-defying hope that they would double their coin without honest toil.

  These men, whose wealth was generated from the sweating backs of their servants, willing to risk their wealth because it was somehow . . . amusing.

  A bearded merchant boldly threw coins on the table in a wager, then quibbled with Sharai over having to pay three pennies for a purse for his wife. She noted in dark fascination that he had yet to learn how the bishop could move on the board.

  The covered games area was filled to capacity. Circulating among the bystanders, she waved her purses high, praising their beauty and value. She sold three, and then moved on to the next table.

  Knights she had not seen at the fair before were seated there, wearing green and gold livery, Lord Tabor’s colors.

  * * * * *

  Hungerford spotted him first, in the games tables shelter. Tabor, the tall, dark-haired sod he would humble.

  Tabor and another man were in the final stages of chips. They had stacked small wooden tiles of varying lengths over sixteen inches high, a delicate tower that seemed to teeter just from the weight of the attention it received from the fascinated group of onlookers.

  Three of Tabor’s knights sat at the chess tables, and four more watched the chips competition.

  Nearby, a sturdy Gypsy man in a red cape leaned against a side support pole.

  Resting his right elbow in the palm of his left hand, Tabor raised his chip with the slowness of sunrise to the top of the precarious stack. The crowd mumbled softly, falling silent as he placed it cautiously on the top.

  His hands were sure. The stack held.

  The crowd released a collective breath.

  Tabor grinned at his opponent and shuffled his two remaining tiles in his hands.

  What arrogance, Hungerford thought. I’ll delight in seeing him fall.

  Tabor’s opponent regarded his three remaining chips with a grimace. He reached to the top, but his hand shook with nerves, and fear flickered in his eyes. He would topple the tower and lose.

  Hungerford nudged closer. “Beware, goldsmith. You play against Lord Tabor. When he cannot earn it, he gambles. When he cannot win, he cheats.”

  Tabor turned like a cat, with swiftness and a grace sufficient to avoid disturbing the delicate tower. “Lord Hungerford? Methought the air smelled foul.”

  “As if you would know, having been blessed with only a commoner’s nose.”

  Hungerford jerked forward to topple the chips.

  Tabor blocked him before he could nudge the table.

  Hungerford swung his walking stick, hitting the table leg soundly.

  The tower of chips faltered, then fell.

  “You bloody sod!” Tabor launched toward Hungerford, ready to strike. With visible effort he stopped himself. “Get you away from me before I forget you cannot fight man to man.”

  Rauf stepped forward “You call yourself a man, fleeing your castle in fear and leaving your brother to die?” He grinned at the Hungerford knights. “What a fine ‘man.’”

  Tabor’s veins appeared in his neck, pulsing, and his mouth twisted to an angry grimace. “By the saints, he died before I found him. Slain by you.”

  Hungerford signaled to Curtis, who stood at the ready. Tabor would attack Rauf. Curtis would allow Tabor to mark Rauf with violence, and he could press the matter in court.

  The sounds of mumbling grew as news of the disturbance filtered through the game rooms.

  Rauf kept goading. “You flee. You lie. You cheat.”

  “Rauf. Rauf, is that you? I thought I recognized your voice.” A woman’s voice cut through the low din, her tone taunting.

  Silence fell and heads turned toward the woman, short, dark-skinned, with a thick braid of raven hair that reached to her waist. Egyptians, they were called, but some people shortened it to simply Gypsy. This one was not yet twen
ty, and her round eyes contemplated his son with disdain.

  Rauf dismissed her. “Be gone, woman.” But his eyes darted about. Her appearance had unsettled him.

  “Use your ears.” Hungerford waved her away. “This is between men. Be you gone.”

  “Ah, yes. Men. Can you fight, man to man, Rauf?” Her lips curved in a taunting smile. “I have not seen you do so.”

  A Hungerford knight reached for her.

  She spun nimbly away from him.

  Glancing nervously at the sturdy Gypsy with the red cloak, Curtis strode in front of the Hungerford knight, blocking his access to the Gypsy woman. “Leave her.”

  The woman advanced within an arm’s reach of Rauf. “Think, Rauf. You must remember me. I was but twelve years old at the time.”

  Rauf studied her, and his face blanched.

  Egad, it must be the little girl who had stabbed Rauf years ago, now grown into a woman. Hungerford pitied Rauf and cursed the timing.

  She made a graceful wave of her hand, including all the men at the tables. “Mayhaps these fine men would like to hear my tale.”

  Rauf’s eyes widened. He hesitated, glanced at Hungerford, then backed away from Tabor.

  Hungerford regarded the young woman. If she revealed to this crowd how she, naught but a girl, had defeated his son, he would be made a laughingstock.

  Something shone on her face, unusual for a woman.

  She showed no fear.

  She would not back down, and his son already had. Hungerford’s jaw tightened at this missed opportunity. Mayhaps he would have to resort to his son’s more direct approach, after all.

  And this woman would have to be silenced.

  * * * * *

  “Sharai?” Tabor called from outside her tent.

  Inside, Sharai stoked the fire for light against the growing darkness and considered whether to answer. Her face flamed again, remembering what Etti told her, that the handsome Lord Tabor was Arthur, the poor wounded man to whom she had shared her childish dreams all those years ago. It had been less than an hour after the incident at the chips tables. Count Aydin had escorted Sharai to her tent and ordered Wilson to guard her, in case Rauf’s men came ’round. Tabor’s appearance brought a new wave of anger, and she made no effort to conceal it. “What do you want?”