by Janet Lane
“Engage knights. Archers, as well. Bring scaling ladders. Crowbars.”
Cyrill’s brows shot up. “A siege?”
“Hatchets. And pitch.” Tabor would end this standoff and clear the shadow that had hung over his family since before his birth.
Sir Cyrill barked orders, designating men to organize the horses, food, and wagons, and the knights hurried away. The peasants not called for archery duty shuffled uneasily into the church.
He felt a pressure on his arm.
Sharai’s hand, a look of concern in her eyes. “The note is unsigned. How do you know Rauf sent it, and not Lord Hungerford? Or someone else?”
He pulled his arm free and stalked toward the castle. “No one else would write this. My family has no enemies but them.”
She hurried to catch up. “Where will you go?”
“Bishops Road to Hungerford. Due south. A two day ride with wagons.”
“And?”
“I shall finish what the blackguard started in St. Giles when he accused me of leaving my brother to die, the bloody sod.” He walked faster, his blood pumping hot. “My estates are in good shape now. I have strong knights. Mercenaries, yes, but trained, and ready for battle.”
She seemed quiet, thoughtful. “I heard at the fair that Hungerford claims your father stole Coin Forest from his family.”
“Drivel. His aunt tried to kill my father with a potion. He barely survived and lived thereafter with a nervous tic on the left side of his face. She was tried and found guilty of witchcraft. Imprisoned. And my father’s marriage to her was annulled.”
“Why is there still a problem, then?”
“Hungerford petitions the king trying to regain Coin Forest.”
“Regain? So Coin Forest was a Hungerford holding.”
“These matters should not trouble you, but I will tell you nonetheless. My father did not steal Coin Forest. It was given to him, and I will die before I let those vermin have it. Now I must needs prepare for battle.”
He turned from her and strode to the castle. He collected his armor and returned to the bailey.
Lady Anne met him at the doorway. Her eyes shining, she squeezed his arm. “Take care of it, finally, Tabor. Finish them.”
Loading a wagon with filled quivers, Cyrill greeted him with a somber nod, but hesitation in his eyes.
“You think I should wait?”
“Mind you the king’s order, my lord,” Cyrill said.
“What? Maintain the peace when there is none?”
“What will be gained by force?”
“The end of the Hungerfords,” Tabor growled. “Waiting has proven futile. Rauf becomes more and more bold.”
Later, Tabor and Cyrill took final inventory of the loaded wagons. Tabor turned to the ten and two knights who would accompany them to battle, along with their squires and the archers. “I must pray, and then we shall be off.”
He entered the church and his eyes adjusted to the dim light. The stained glass in the east window depicted a bishop kneeling before the Virgin. The red and yellow glass made colored shafts of light on the reed-strewn floor. A single figure stood before the rood screen. “Sharai.”
She turned. Her dark eyes appeared liquid, her face serene, framed by a few black curls that escaped her braid. She held prayer beads in her hands. He covered her small hands with his, then lifted her beads to the light. At closer glance, he saw that it was made not of beads, but of globes of red colored silk and six large ovals of black silk, sewn so deftly that no stitches were visible.
A treasure from scraps. She could make so much from so little. Where had she developed such patience and resourcefulness, he wondered.
“Please forgive me, Sharai. I interrupted your prayers.”
She shook her head. “No mind. I’m glad to talk with you before you leave on this . . . battle. I have no family, but I have Kadriya. And Etti. And you have shown me kindness, and—” She hesitated, then frowned. “And I care for you.” Her eyes blinked as if revealing the information pained her.
Her unexpected affection brought a quiet warmth. “I care for you, too, Sharai.”
She kept looking at his hand.
He turned it over. “What did you see there?”
“Forsooth, I cannot be sure. I have learned much about you, though. You have a short temper and react quickly, ofttimes too quickly. Mayhaps this is a time to resist your impulses, to abstain from doing the first thing you think of. Mayhaps this time you would do the second thing you think of.”
“What know you of battle?”
“I know of survival.” She lowered her lashes, but the furrow in her brows revealed her pain. “I know the penalties of misjudgment. That is what I would wish to spare you.”
He recalled Rauf’s attack and how Sharai had come, with her dagger and women, to his rescue, and his face grew warm. “You saved me once, Sharai. ’Tis sufficient for one lifetime.”
“We help each other, don’t we?” She paused. “What will the king think of you if you lay siege to Hungerford’s manor, and fail?” She folded the silk beads and slipped them into a fold of her skirt. “What will the king think of you if you’re successful?”
A vision rested in Tabor’s brain, but it did not involve the king. It involved Rauf’s neck in his own hands, squeezing tighter until Tabor finally stilled Rauf’s murdering hands and forever silenced his perverse mouth. He did not respond.
“So you have no plan. You merely react to Rauf’s message.”
Her dark eyes met his, warm, lacking their usual fire. She placed something in his hand and closed it. “Godspeed. Keep this round your neck. It will protect you.”
He touched her cheek with his free hand. With a last gaze, he left the church.
Outside, he opened his hand, revealing a pale blue vial about the size of a spoon’s bowl, with a black string. I care for you. Her words embraced him like fire on a winter’s night. And she had given him this gift. Enchanted, he pulled the flat cork free and scraped a dab of the salve, putting it to his tongue. He grimaced and spat it out. It tasted like rancid fat and smelled of worms.
* * * * *
Tabor and his knights followed the old Roman road known as Bishops Trail. They’d been traveling for two hours, Tabor and his knights in the lead, flanked by mercenary knights and followed by the supply wagons tilting right and left from the stone path, pocked by centuries of rains. The archers followed on foot, heads bobbing, arrows rattling in their quivers.
The sky frowned on them, rumpled, grey, threatening rain. He slipped the disgusting amulet Sharai had given him under his hauberk, and her words echoed in his mind. What will King Henry think if he kills the Hungerfords? Or if he fails?
I will not fail. His jaw tightened, his muscles straining to act, to finally send his enemies to the netherworld.
He’d sent for reinforcements from his manor in Fritham, located a full day’s ride northwest of Hungerford. They would bring more men and supplies and rendezvous with him.
How long before they took the manor? Not long. Hungerford had not received license to crenellate, so he and his knights would not be raining arrows on Tabor from the rooftop. Though stately, the manor lacked a moat, and the curtain was reported to be in ill repair.
Yet after leaving the note on his church door, they would be expecting him. However stealthy their approach, the Hungerfords would have assembled a formidable welcoming party.
He stopped his horse. Of course, Rauf would be expecting him to come galloping to their door in two-fisted fury.
Don’t do the first thing you think of, Tabor. Sharai’s advice was well-intentioned, but ill-informed. To not act would be to encourage more death. Hatred worked up his throat like a sickness. He urged Bolt forward.
* * * * *
Tabor kicked the small fire, scattering the flames. His Fritham men had joined them and they were camped outside Hungerford Village’s perimeter. He glared at three of his knights. “No fires. They'll reveal our presence. We leave to rec
onnoiter. Wait for my signal.”
Tabor mounted and spurred his horse forward. Though Tabor wanted to shout a rally cry to vanquish the Hungerfords, Sharai’s words echoed in his mind. He would use caution this time.
They steered clear of the small village and approached the manor. Three stories tall, it perched on a high hill and sprawled in three directions. Spies had advised that as a security measure, Hungerford had covered the hill with a layer of loose rocks that would make a rapid advance--or retreat--difficult. Useful information, for this could not be seen in the quarter moon’s light.
The horses stepped soundlessly in the moist grass, allowing them quiet approach.
Tabor reined to a stop. “The drawbridge is down.” He would have expected it to be up, at least partially.
Cyrill made a troubled sound. “And minimal guards. Look you at the bastions.”
The bastions were vacant save one lone guard. Laughter and the musical notes of lutes and applause drifted down to them.
The Hungerfords would not be making merry if they expected his attack. Yet here he was, army and weapons at the ready. . Tabor checked the roof--only the Hungerford flag was hoisted. No visitors. Hairs rose on the back of his neck. Something is amiss. He signaled to Cyrill. “It's a trap. Let's go back to the camp.”
At camp, Tabor and Cyrill met with John at the supply wagon.
“Where are Hungerford’s men?”
“Most curious,” John said. “They’re all inside. The hall is packed, and they are at leisure.
“It makes no sense. Cyrill, we must retreat. Quietly. And you must return to protect Coin Forest.”
“And you?” Cyrill asked.
Tabor could not leave without solving this mystery. “I’ll stay.”
Cyrill shook his head. “Not alone.”
John stepped forward. “I shall stay with you, milord.”
“With that butter-top head of yours? You will be recognized at first blush.”
John lifted the oiled canvas covering the wagon bed and put his hand inside, then wiped a thin film of pitch on his yellow hair, blackening it. “Not now.”
Tabor used a rag to rub the tar evenly on John’s hair. “You’ll have a devil of a time washing this out, but it works.”
Tabor looked at the sliver of the moon. Midnight would come soon. “Cyrill, take our horses and have the Fritham men wait for us just past the Druid stones. Fetch us two linen tunics from the archers. I’ll wear the hood forward and stay clear of the manor.” The thought of dressing as a peasant in Hungerford’s estate made him cringe, but it might help him learn more about Hungerford’s plans.
* * * * *
Tabor sat alone in the corner of a Hungerford alehouse. Some forty souls crowded onto the slab benches, deep in their cups, many gnawing on roast chicken. A group of four pilgrims and a lone tinker occupied the table next to Tabor. The small village was situated on the way to Salisbury, a popular pilgrimage destination, and from there a good road led east to the grand Cathedral of Winchester.
At the opposite end of the alehouse John flirted with the prostitutes, most of them older than Tabor, hard women with broken teeth and muscle enough to pressure any patron who refused to pay. One was young, though. Built strong, like the others, but mayhaps just ten and four, with teeth intact, though her red hair and grey gown were deeply soiled. She knew several men, and she occasionally pulled the top of her dress down, affording brief glimpses of her large breasts.
The men close to her laughed and reached out to grab them, but she was faster than they and covered them before they could.
John bobbed his neck like a chicken, keeping her in his sights.
To John’s right a young cripple had crawled close to the fire to beg, dragging his useless legs close to the wall to avoid being stepped on. Above him, a stout lad turned chickens on the spit.
One guest’s voice traveled over all the others, a bragging fellow named George of Wooten. A small man with grey, thinning hair, George was on pilgrimage to St. Swithun’s shrine for a chest ailment. George had appraised Tabor with his small eyes, taken in his coarse linen tunic and dirtied hair, and calmly turned his back to him.
Tabor swirled the thin ale in his flask. He felt the absence of his sword, but peasants invited arrest if they carried one, so both he and John carried only a dagger.
The tavern master’s eyes held no respect for Tabor, had looked past him, in fact, to the well-dressed pilgrims, serving them first. Tabor’s disguise had worked to diminish his standing, but the victory brought with it a sense of inferiority, making him feel less powerful, more vulnerable.
George kicked a begging dog away and leaned toward another man at his table. “I saw them march here, bringing their beds and baggage. My brother worries for his sheep. By the time they left Lord Hardgrove’s manor, his larders were stripped bare.”
His friend, better dressed than George, emptied his mug. His face showed scabs from a bad shave, and he missed a front tooth. “’Tis their right, by gad. Watch your words.”
“Could it be a call to arms?”
Tabor strained to hear more. Did they speak of his men? Had Cyrill been intercepted? Or his Fritham men, waiting for him at the Druid stones?
The friend laughed. “Where would we fight? We’ve lost all but Normandy and Calais.”
“Bloody French. The war has cost us. And the coronation took our last penny.”
“How know you this?” another said.
George straightened. “My brother is a clerk in the Exchequer. And mark this: the king himself was short thousands of pounds last year in covering his personal expenses.”
“Sweet misery. England is defeated. At Southampton I heard the bishop of Winchester’s going to France to negotiate peace.”
George jerked his head around, confronting Tabor. “Boy.”
Thinking he referred to the boy cooking the chickens, Tabor looked behind him.
“Nay. You, peasant,” George said, poking his shoulder. “You with the brown hood. Your ears are large. Be you a spy?”
Tabor shook his head.
“Curiosity kills the cat, you know. What’s your business here?”
“Waiting for a friend, sir.”
George pushed his tankard forward. “Refill my mug, then, peasant. I’ll give you a couple of farthings so you can buy a bigger hood to hold those ears.”
George guffawed, and his friend joined in.
Tabor’s neck warmed unpleasantly, but he responded, approaching the tavern master at the barrels. “A refill, prithee, for George of Wooten.”
The tavern master filled the mug from the barrel tap, and handed it back to him.
Tabor passed John and lowered his voice. “Hear anything?”
“Gloucester,” John said.
Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, the king’s uncle and Chancellor of England during the king’s minority. “What about Gloucester?”
“He’s here,” John whispered. “At Hungerford’s manor.”
God’s teeth! As if rising from the depths and breaking the surface of the water, Tabor saw it now. Hungerford invited Gloucester, then taunted Tabor with the bird and note. Tabor, in his temper, had responded just as Hungerford had anticipated.
But the royal flag wasn't flying, indicated Gloucester was in residence. Tabor shook his head. Of course. It was easy enough for Hungerford to order the royal flags taken down, once Gloucester was inside and couldn't see them. Thank the saints he hadn't attacked.
For once he’d reined in his initial instincts. Tabor swallowed. But if he were caught here, it could be construed that he had defied the king’s order to keep the peace. He grabbed John’s arm. “We must leave.”
Just then the tavern door opened. A gust of night air swept the room and two guards entered, followed by a large, burly nobleman.
Tabor dropped his head so the hood would cover his face.
It was Rauf.
Chapter Eight
At Rauf’s appearance, quiet braced the tavern. He stepp
ed into the room, his sheer size demanding attention. Dressed for ceremony, he wore a red velvet doublet with black hose.
He stationed one of his guards at the front door and the other at the side door, leaving just the bolted window for escape. He gave his guards pointed looks. “No one leaves.”
Tabor caught John’s eye and gestured with a thumb to the side door, then moved a step closer to the fireplace, looking for a weapon. He spied only cooking tools, but they might work.
Rauf pointed at the tavern master. “An ale.”
The tavern master handed a full tankard to the young, red-haired wench.
Her hands shaking, she passed it to Rauf and bowed. “My lord.”
Rauf spied the cripple at the wall and strode to him. “Worm. Did I not forbid you to enter?” He kicked the cripple in the side.
The young cripple groaned and tried to shrink further into the wall. “Sorry, my lord. I did not beg, you see?” He held his empty hands out. “’Tis cold tonight, and by your grace, I wish only to warm myself.”
The cords in Rauf’s neck tightened and he grabbed his own leg, shuddering. “Your curse may spread.” He splashed his tankard of ale into the cripple’s face. “Get away from me. Get out.”
The cripple gasped but kept his hands held upward in a plea for mercy.
The pilgrims shrank to the far side of the tavern.
Tabor started toward Rauf, but saw the guard looking for someone who might defend the crippled man and stopped.
The cripple pulled on his frayed coat, trying to hide his lower legs, where they had withered to fatty sacs of flesh reminiscent of a turkey’s wattle.
Rauf’s expression distorted to one of loathing. “The devil’s work. I told you, you abomination, we do not . . .” He kicked the cripple in the ribs.
“Give . . .” He kicked him again.
“Alms.” He struck him a third time.
The red-haired wench rushed to Rauf, touching his shoulder. “Please, my lord. I’ll take him out. I beg your pardon—”
Rauf backhanded her.
She reeled and was caught in the arms of the crowd.
Tabor roared and lunged toward Rauf, tackling him, and they tumbled onto a table.
