by Janet Lane
“I would speak with you. Please.”
Wilson stood by the door, wild hair framing his questioning eyes.
She nodded. “Let him in.”
Tabor entered, regarding her with gratitude. “Thank you for interrupting at the chips tables.”
“I must say, I wondered at your restraint. From what I’ve seen, your nature is to brawl.
He met her eyes. “Some of times.”
“The old Hungerford colludes with Curtis.”
“I suspected such.”
“Then why did you allow yourself to be trapped?”
“Hungerford was not due to arrive until the morrow.”
“Who says this?”
“Curtis.” He paused. “I’ve been distracted.” The look in his brown eyes simmered, making it clear how he had been distracted, and it made her heart skip. He was devastatingly handsome, to a fault.
She noticed, then, the scar above his left brow and at the temple, and remembered those days, five years ago, and his lies. “They baited you like a bear. Why?”
“’Tis a long story, Sharai, I—”
“Oh, come now, Arthur.” She burdened the name with sarcasm and paced toward him in swaggering steps. “Do you not want to tell me about your peasant life, and how difficult it is, wearing these rags?” She pulled on his silk collar, grinding out the words.
“Forgive me. I should have told you sooner.”
“Instead you use trickery and deceit to amuse yourself at my expense.”
“I was never amused by your dark plans to use a man just for his financial station.”
“Be not daft. I was twelve years old. You, with your silk and velvet and finery. You come here, throwing your silver around, gambling on a whim and tossing me a crown. A crown! On the stage.”
He looked honestly confused. “You performed well. You deserved it.”
“You think money will solve your problems.”
He laughed. “You, of all people, to utter such. Aren’t you riding the high horse?”
“You have no notion of hunger, or the cry of a child in need. You’re arrogant.”
“You’re calculating.”
“Irresponsible.”
His brown eyes blazed with sudden anger. “Manipulating.”
“You and your silver reek.”
He stiffened as though she had struck him. “Really? My silver is good enough to buy you.”
She drew back. “What?” She choked on her words. “Never.”
“I already have.” He stuck his chin out and raised an eyebrow, his charm fading into an air of privilege and self-indulgence. “With my last farthing. Etti strikes a hard bargain, but we agreed on a price. You leave with me on the morrow.”
Her hand flew to her neck. Memories of Lipscani and Marseilles fell over her, of that time when she was eight years old, standing naked in a ring of buyers, men with small, assessing eyes, poking and prodding her like a goat at market. Her chest squeezed in panic. “You cannot buy me.”
Chapter Five
Sharai burst into Etti’s tent, where Etti sat under candlelight on an elaborate wooden casket. “Tell me it’s not true. Tell me you didn’t sell me to Lord Tabor.”
Etti’s expression was unreadable. “Not you, Pen,” she said, using a term of affection. “Just your services.”
Sharai’s throat constricted. “How dare you make a contract without asking me?”
“’Tis a boon to all parties.” She rose, smiling. “I got a nice bundle from Tabor. Big enough that your debt to me is paid.” Her voice softened. “We’re even, Sharai. You’re free—and Kadriya gets to go with you.”
But—”
Etti waved her objection aside. “Tabor gets your fine skills with a needle and you, my dear,” she said, fluffing her hair and shaking it around her shoulders, “you get your chance at a handsome, unwed noble.”
“That was folly, a stupid dream when I was but a child.”
“I thought so at first, but seeing his concern for you—he is concerned, my dear—and he wants to repay his debt to you. You can’t fault him for that.”
“What debt?”
“You saved his life. Now he wishes to spare you from Count Aydin.” She gave Sharai a look of reprimand. “You didn’t tell me the count ordered you to stop dancing. You weren’t going to, were you? In spite of his threat?”
Sharai thought of his hands, squeezing her arms in anger, and shuddered. “He has no right.”
“He does. Do you wish to wed the count?”
Sharai’s throat constricted at the thought. “Nay, but Lord Tabor is selfish, wasteful with his coin.”
Etti laughed. “His purse is empty only because of you.”
“But he’s a nobleman.” The word burned her like a hot summer rash. The nobleman Fletcher had looked at her with that same longing, had kissed her, and Sharai had dared hope he’d provide a life for her and Kadriya. Fool, she chastised herself. She had let Diana and Jennamine tease her into letting down her guard, and now Lord Tabor had smugly informed her that he had bought her.
Bitterness rose in her throat, making breathing difficult. “One does not sew golden threads in burlap,” she told Etti. “He’s too fine a man to consider a woman like me.”
“He’s honorable.”
“He’s full of lust, and full of himself. I won’t go with him.”
Etti’s gaze captured her with a look of affection tempered by determination. “It’s done, and you will go.”
Sharai held her heart in a futile effort to keep her lifeline from being ripped away. “Etti!”
“I know him, better than he knows himself. He is not Fletcher. Lord Tabor’s a good man, and the way he looks at you?” She raised her eyebrows suggestively. “Pack your clothes and sewing basket, and take Kadriya.” Etti lowered her voice, squeezed her hand and gave her a gentle gaze. “This is your chance, Sharai.”
* * * * *
Tabor wedged Kadriya’s dove cage between the side of the wagon and a crate of spices. “It fits, my girl,” he said to Kadriya. He gestured to an open spot in the wagon. “Here’s a place for you and Sharai.”
Sharai rubbed the early morning chill from her arms and settled into the soft seat of fabric bolts, helping Kadriya in. “Thank you, Lord Tabor.” She had no choice, but she would be civil. A spot of red flashed from behind the tollbooth, and Count Aydin appeared. Seeing Sharai and Kadriya in the wagon, his expression clouded in anger. Cursing, he approached Tabor. “Choro!”
“What?” Sharai exclaimed, stunned at his gall. “He is no thief, and I am not some property to steal or recover.”
He grabbed her arm. “Get out of this wagon.”
Sharai resisted. “Nay.”
Tabor struck Aydin’s arm, forcing him to release Sharai.
“Stop, both of you.” Etti rushed to them. “Aydin, don’t pull that dagger. See this contract?” She held a parchment. “An agreement for Sharai’s services. She’s to be seamstress to Lady Tabor, Lord Tabor’s mother.”
“I am your king. You have no right to enter into contracts.”
Etti shot him a warning glance. “You never forbade it, Count. It’s legal. Isn’t that right, Curtis?”
The fair marshal approached, made a show of taking the contract and examining it, and handed it back to Etti. “It’s proper, aye.”
The count bared his teeth at Lord Tabor and his big chest rose and fell as if he had been running uphill. He grabbed the parchment, shaking it at Etti. “How long is she bound?”
Etti didn’t flinch or shrink, and in spite of her meddling, Sharai admired the strong, clever woman who had cared for her for nine years.
Etti calmly plucked the contract from the count’s hand. “Until Michaelmas.”
Count Aydin cast a look of raw longing at Sharai. His brown eyes seemed to glow, as if a spell had been cast with a special light only he could see, stripping him of reason and restraint. He turned to Tabor. “Your contract is with Sharai. Kadriya must stay with her tribe.”
/>
Sharai’s heart seized, and she put her forehead to Kadriya’s to still her speeding heart. She would die before she let him take Kadriya.
Tabor mounted his horse and positioned himself between them and Count Aydin. “I’m sorry, Count, but I bought them together, as a pair. Etti will tell you.”
Etti raised her chin. “Yes, I included Kadriya.”
“It’s settled then." Tabor addressed his knights. "Time to go.”
* * * * *
The wagon lurched forward, moving from its spot near the river. Sagging willow branches, wet with morning dew, brushed Sharai’s face, and they started the ride to Tabor’s castle.
Nestled on the fabric bolts, Kadriya slept in a compact curl, unaware of the sharp turn their lives had taken.
Three more wagons lumbered behind them, laden with goods and several fine horses hitched to the back. Lord Tabor and Sir Cyrill rode ahead. Two knights flanked the wagons, with two more in back. All wore armor, and the clanking created an ominous song in the damp morning air.
They traveled north and west from Winchester, in an area unfamiliar to her. The clouds eventually lifted and barley fields, shorn of their bounty, lay naked and cropped in the late August sun. Like the fields, Sharai had been left exposed and vulnerable. Doubts swirled in her mind. What if Etti had misread Tabor? What if he craved the flesh but not the woman beneath it? Why fret? Is this not what you wanted? A rich noble to care for you?
Years ago, yes, but she was no longer a stupid, dreaming girl. Emotions warred within her. Tabor had freed her from Count Aydin and prevented him from taking Kadriya from her. Tears stung her eyes. By that deed alone, he’d repaid his debt to her tenfold.
But scheming with Etti, tempting her with coin until she could no longer resist—so arrogant, buying her like a sack of eggs at market. He’d been helpful, but insulting, leaving little doubt what he thought of her: someone worth helping, because she’d saved his life, but also someone of little worth, someone with no free will. Like a slave. For that she wanted to strike him, to return some of the hurt his words had caused.
She was obligated to him until Michaelmas, a little over a month away. When her obligation to Lord Tabor was fulfilled, what then? She saw Count Aydin’s eyes in her memory. She could not return to St. Giles.
The wagon slipped into a large rut and tilted awkwardly. Sharai leaned right to keep the wagon’s uphill wheel on the road. She cursed the loose, twelve-year-old tongue that had started this turmoil. Never tell secrets to strangers. She would add that bit of wisdom to her life rules.
Kadriya stirred. “Why so vexed, Sharai?”
Because I’m hurt and afraid. “I’m angry. They negotiate for me as if I have no say in the matter.”
Kadriya reached in her dove’s cage, stroking the white bird’s feathers. “Aye, but Tabor paid Etti well, and he let me come with you.” Kadriya hugged her. “And he saved you from Count Aydin.”
“I could have handled him in my own way.” Yet fear clouded the back of her mind. He would have taken Kadriya from her if she didn’t sway to his wishes. Tabor’s contract had given them a chance to stay together.
Sharai impulsively hugged the young girl who had no more home than she, the one who represented Sharai’s only family. At the least, Tabor had given her that.
She would fulfill her commitment to him, which would complete her commitment to Etti. She would be free by Michaelmas, still time to return to France and find a new tribe that would accept them. Traveling was perilous for unescorted women, but if they traveled only in early morn and stayed on the pilgrim routes . . . well, she had no choice. She would not be owned. She and Kadriya would find a new tribe, one without Count Aydin.
* * * * *
“Sharai, wake up.”
Roused from her nap, Sharai propped herself on an elbow so she could see over the top of the wagon. Their journey had taken a day and a half, judging by the height of the sun, which had warmed her into slumber. They rolled to a stop at the crest of a hill.
Kadriya stood over her, jumping in excitement. “Up, up, and look.”
Sharai blinked and stood, following Kadriya’s gaze. In the distance a gold stoned castle perched like a jewel on the breast of the land. Set at the base of a series of gently rolling hills, the castle shone amid tilled meadows spread like a green velvet skirt around her. ’Twas not so grand as the cathedral, but nestled in the valley, it spoke of strength and security and beauty.
“It’s so fine,” Kadriya said. “Lord Tabor, you’re a king.”
Ahead, Tabor laughed. “Not quite, Kadriya.”
Vaguely reminiscent of the castles Sharai had seen near Troyes, it echoed the continental style, a tall, rectangular castle with a drum tower at each corner and roofed like a French chateau.
A village nestled in front of the castle, and a small church sat to the left, built near a narrow river.
To the distant right a forest grew, the sunlight disappearing into the tall, dense growth, whispering danger and mystery.
Lord Tabor stopped by Sharai, contemplating the view. “’Tis my home. Coin Forest Castle.”
His features had softened with pride and a quiet passion that made her heart skip, and she wondered at the thought of owning something so beautiful and grand as this lovely castle, with all its bounty and wealth.
As if realizing his guard had dropped, he urged his horse forward, leading the procession once again.
Cyrill blew his horn, signaling their arrival.
From the castle, an answering signal sounded.
A party of knights rode out to escort them down the narrow village street, and the villagers welcomed Lord Tabor. Their smiles and shouts of welcome made clear their affection for him. Sharai’s heart quickened and for some reason not at all rational she was drawn into the excitement. It brought to mind her mother’s look of surprise, and the way she would run to her father when he returned from one of his many absences, how Sharai, too, would run as fast as her small legs could take her to rush to him so he would scoop her up into his arms. These people were welcoming Tabor, not her, but she remembered, and the memory of what she had lost brought joy and a painful tightening in her throat.
She blinked the moisture back and looked up. Green and gold flags flew from the castle towers. Visible through the rooftop crenellations, sentries held their posts.
A wide moat flanked the castle. From shore’s edge, a few dozen people gathered, delivering boxes of noisy chickens and geese, a squealing pig, firewood, flour, and bales of wool.
The knight named John approached, his hair the color of ripe wheat.
“What goes here? Sharai asked him, gesturing to the animals.
He studied her, eyes so full of curiosity, he probably wished to ask her about the color of her skin. Sharai had become familiar with the scrutiny, But he simply followed her gaze. “Tenants, delivering their rents.”
“For their homes?”
“Aye, and their lands.”
Heavy chains clanked as, link by link, the drawbridge descended.
Several children appeared from behind the castle walls. They climbed to the top of the drawbridge, shouting and jumping like morning goats. Dangling their legs over the side, they played a game of mettle to see who could leave them there the longest before succumbing to fear when the drawbridge met the walkway to the shore. A dozen dogs romped behind them, barking, scratching their way up the lowering drawbridge and then sliding back down.
The heavy timbers let down further, nearing the partial bridge that spanned a moat at least three rods wide. One boy, a brown-haired rascal of about ten summers, left his legs dangling long after all the others had lost their courage.
Sharai closed her eyes, not daring to look, but anxiety made her peek. The daring boy had finally pulled his legs to safety. He scrambled up, his short hair revealing big ears red with excitement, and raced to Sir Cyrill, banging his armor.
The knight gave the boy a scathing look. “Master Thomas.” His voice cut with repri
mand. “Godspeed,” he said, reminding him of his duty.
Thomas winced, then straightened. “Godspeed, Sir Cyrill.” He offered his hands.
Sir Cyrill dismounted, gave Thomas his reins and removed his helm, handing it to a taller, more mature boy, likely his squire.
Beside Sharai, John laughed. “It’s Cyrill’s bad luck of the draw, getting young Tommy as page. He’s a wild one, that.” John dismounted, handed his reins and helm to his squire then crossed the drawbridge.
A woman approached from the castle side, dressed in an outdated green damask surcoat over a white under-tunic. The flesh at her waistline strained against the confines of the fabric, and her hemline was at the least two inches too short. Sharai lingered not on the hemline lest she embarrass her, but checked the pulled seams again, fearing they would surrender to the tension as Jennamine’s seams often did.
The woman’s face was old but pleasant. She had the same coloring as Tabor, but not his height. Her features were softer, her nose gently sloping, cheekbones less prominent, same strong chin, but her eyes were vivid blue. Tabor’s mother. Forsooth. She exists. From behind her short, veiled headdress, her drastically plucked brows were furrowed, but she managed a smile. “Tabor. Thank the saints you’re safe.”
Tabor dismounted, and his mother patted his shoulder awkwardly. Taking her hand, he led her to the wagon. “Sharai, this is my mother, the Lady Anne.”
Sharai dipped her head, gently, slightly, as she had seen the noblewomen do at church services. “My lady.”
“And Mother, may I present Princess Sharai.” He gestured toward Sharai, giving her a wink.
More arrogance and humor at her expense. Sharai glared at him.
“From Little Egypt,” Tabor continued. “She’s the best seamstress outside of London, here to serve you as such from now until your Michaelmas festival.”
Lady Anne’s smile erased her wrinkles. “Lovely. Oh, Tabor, how could you be so charming as to bring me a foreign servant?”
Sharai bristled. “Thank you, my lady, but I am a merchant and craftswoman, not a servant.”
