by Janet Lane
Tabor’s hands squeezed around Rauf’s neck. Months of frustration surged through him and he bellowed again, letting it loose.
Tabor saw movement, the flash of a sword drawn high.
He rolled off the table.
The front door guard rushed forward, sword drawn, looking for a clean target.
Buffered by the table, Tabor retreated to the fireplace. He grabbed a long handled spoon out of the young cook’s hand and retrieved a pan of hot fat drippings from its hook.
Rauf eyed the bubbling grease in Tabor’s hand and stopped.
Tabor gestured to the cripple. “Get him out of here.”
The red-haired wench stooped to lift him, but Rauf pulled his sword and bent down, his lip curled in disgust. “Return to the hell from whence you came.” He ran the young boy through.
The wench screamed.
The cripple grunted softly and looked to the wench. Blood pooled on the floor, and his head dropped on his arm.
“You cutthroat,” Tabor said.
Rauf turned slightly toward his knight but kept his eye on Tabor. “Do not kill this one.” Rauf swung, slashing his sword at Tabor’s arm.
Tabor threw the bubbling grease at Rauf.
It splashed onto Rauf’s sleeve, sinking into the skin. Rauf roared in pain.
Tabor dropped the pan and dodged Rauf’s sword. Grabbing a hefty mug from the mantle, he pitched it at Rauf’s head.
Rauf ducked and the mug struck the guard’s shoulder.
Tabor withdrew to the corner and the guard ran around the table, sword swinging.
Tabor dipped and the sword passed him. It penetrated the fireplace beam with a large “thwock.”
Rauf saw the knight’s sword rendered useless in the small space and pulled his dagger.
Now they were even. Almost. Tabor pulled off his hood, tossing it over the guard’s head, then rammed his fist into his face.
The guard reeled backward.
Rauf pulled Tabor off the guard and pounded his fist into Tabor’s jaw.
A jolt of pain filled him and Tabor fell. He feigned unconsciousness.
Rauf pulled him up by his left arm.
Tabor smashed a clean shot at Rauf, and he fell backward. He chopped Rauf’s wrist, ridding him of his dagger. A new, hot strength coursed through Tabor, and he punched Rauf between the eyes and straddled him. He hammered his fist into Rauf’s face, again and again. Each punch purged something dark and oppressive from within. Blood sprayed, punctuating each blow, covering his hands.
Someone grabbed Tabor’s arms, pulling them behind his back.
Tabor saw the hilt of the guard’s sword heading for his face.
Then darkness.
* * * * *
The sun winked behind the banner as it waved in the gentle morning breeze, making a muffled whipping sound. Standing near the blacksmith stall, Sharai watched it flutter in the sunlight, bright and new.
She had walked in this bailey, slept in her snug chamber, and been nourished with regular, hearty meals for three weeks now. She’d observed the flow of the days, activity in the stables, the buttery maids, the knights, Father Bernard and his services. Being under Tabor's protection in this fortress, defended by well-armed knights, she enjoyed the freedom of security.
The banner snapped straight, revealing Tabor’s coat of arms, a horizontal silver sword threading three gold circles against a green background. Sharai had thought his coat of arms would include coins, for Coin Forest, but the Tabor coat of arms originated hundreds of years ago, long before the family acquired this castle.
Sharai yearned for such stability. What would it be like, she wondered, to follow the seasons in one place, to plant seeds in the spring and tend the growing plants, and harvest the food come autumn, to sleep, warmed by the same hearth, year after year, to watch her babes grow into children and fine sons and daughters, to become familiar with the trees and paths and rivers?
She crossed the bailey and gave a critical eye to another banner that flew at the northeast watchtower. The banner was made of durable linen, but she had selected the more easily worked satin for the detail. The fabric had bunched a bit at the point of the sword on this one, but she’d been able to fix it.
She’d sewn the new flags on impulse after noticing the drab banners that hung, limp and tattered, at the keep and watchtowers. The guards raised the fresh ones just yesterday.
When he returned from Hungerford he would see the new banners and know she was thinking about him.
Worrying about him. He’d left three days ago and his knights had returned, without him, yester eve. Now Thursday, and still no word. She swallowed hard. She prayed she was wrong about his palm.
She must be, because she’d crossed a thin line and could never return to where she was before she met the handsome Richard, Baron of Tabor. When had it happened? When had her feelings sneaked past the shield she’d held so close to her heart? She shook her head. ’Twas reckless folly. There was an army of reasons they could not be together as she so foolishly hoped in the secret moments of night, just before dawn. No other man could bring her happiness now, and, hopeless as their situation was, she still yearned to be with him.
Looking skyward, she sent another prayer to keep him safe.
“Come, Sharai.” Kadriya, her round face framed with golden-brown curls and painted the picture of impatience, tugged her arm. “Tommy is ready. Hurry.”
Sharai let Kadriya pull her, and together they ran across the bailey, skirts flying, to the north curtain by the garden.
Tommy, the little daredevil who annoyed Kadriya in every way possible, waved at them. He wore a wool tunic, the weave so coarse that his skin showed through. His hair resembled the grass in the pigsty, trampled and dirty, but his freckled face wore a sunny grin that forgave it. “Here they are,” he said, pointing at the slender wooden poles leaning against the curtain. “Come on. I’ll help you up.”
He propped the tall poles against the stone curtain that enclosed the bailey and protected the castle from attack. The poles seemed to Sharai as tall as a tree, with a wooden wedge nailed into the side in the middle of its length.
“What are they called again?”
“Stilts,” Tommy answered. “They lift you high in the air, and you walk on them. Men use them to walk in the marshes. My da saw them in Southampton when he delivered wool there and he made some for me.” He stacked three crates one on the other and gestured to Kadriya. “You first.”
Kadriya backed away. “Nay. Sharai, you first.”
Challenged, Sharai climbed onto the crates.
Tommy pointed to the wooden wedges nailed to the sides. “Put your feet there, on the footholds.”
Sharai inched her left foot past the right stilt and found her footing on the left foothold, then the right, leaning against the stone curtain for balance. She looked down, a mistake. Her feet were elevated to the top of Kadriya’s head. Sharai had climbed many a tree before, but they had been rooted, not a tottering pair of unwieldy sticks.
Tommy positioned another pair of stilts to the right of the stacked boxes and mounted them. He gripped the stilts high, near the top, pushed off, and started walking.
Sharai mustered her courage and pushed off until she was standing. She wobbled there like a crane that had just been stoned in the head.
Tommy gestured, urging her forward. “Walk. Just walk, that’s the trick. If you only stand there, you’ll fall over.”
Her earrings banged against her neck and the rough wood grated against her hands. Sharai worried she might get a splinter. Dizziness overcame her and she faltered. She lifted her right stilt, taking a step forward.
“Do not lift it so high,” Tommy warned.
Her foot came down but slipped off the foothold. She teetered on the left stilt. Her right foot fished for the foothold and found it, but too late. She sagged to the right and dropped like a felled tree, landing with her skirts askew.
She struggled upright, rubbing her hip.
Tommy and Kadriya laughed. Kadriya mounted her stilts and took tentative steps toward her, following Tommy’ suggestion not to lift the stilts too high. She took a few wobbling steps, eventually smoothing her steps as her confidence grew. “See, Sharai? ’Tis easy.”
Sharai straightened her skirts and sent her an “I am your elder” look, but Kadriya deflected it with an expression of delight at having conquered the tall sticks.
Sharai propped her stilts against the curtain. “No sticks of wood will defeat me.” She mounted them again and lifted the stilts more gently, taking shorter steps this time. It worked. She staggered across the bailey once, then gained control.
Laughter tickled in her throat and she let it out, adding a whoop of excitement. “I’m doing it. I’m walking!” How exciting, as if she were a giant. The ground rose gradually into a hill, and from her high perch on the stilts she could see beyond the curtain, the twelve-foot wall that surrounded the bailey. The forest loomed before her on the left, the rolling meadows with sheep and cows, the neatly cultivated fields of oats and wheat to the right, and dozens of peasants, tending the rows.
And she saw, on the road in the distance to the east, a large party approaching.
Her heart skipped. Tabor. He’d returned, safe. Her amulet had overpowered the tragic lifeline on his palm. Relief swept through her, and she let out a small shriek of joy.
Four wagons and several knights on horseback advanced, bearing an unfamiliar coat of arms. As they advanced, the banners became recognizable. One blew open in the breeze.
Blue wings on a silver background.
She dropped from her lofty stilts, landing hard on the ground.
Kadriya dropped from her stilts and rushed to her. “Are you all right, Sharai?”
Slivers needled into her hands and she winced from the pain. “I’m fine.” Reality dug like the rough wood in her fingers, and she cursed herself for letting her feelings get away from her. Of course, it would be the Marmyl entourage. Tabor’s noble, very wealthy bride-to-be had just arrived.
* * * * *
Sharai and Kadriya scurried down the steps, dressed in their hastily donned houppelandes. Sharai wore the red one she’d altered to fit, and Kadriya wore a drab brown frock that Britta had given her, dull but acceptable.
“Make haste.” Sharai urged Kadriya forward, their footfalls creating a noisy echo in the circular staircase. “If luck is with us, we shall be seated before they enter.”
Lady Anne met them at the base of the stairs, breathless and rushed, wearing her blue gown. She’d netted and veiled her dark hair. Looking at Sharai’s gown, her soft features wrinkled into a sharp frown of reproach. “You simpleton.” She gestured impatiently to them, sending them abovestairs. “Don you your Egyptian costumes, both of you. Be swift now.”
Sharai turned back up the stairs, steering Kadriya with her. “Come, let us slip into our skirts.”
“And remember your bracelets and necklaces,” Anne shouted after them.
“How dare she insult you,” Kadriya grumbled.
“Did you not see her eyes? She’s nervous.”
“Of what? She is in charge. She’s . . . ,” Kadriya hesitated, “What’s that word?”
“Chatelaine,” said Sharai.
“Aye, that. She rules the castle when Lord Tabor’s away.”
“She wants to make a good impression.” Sharai climbed the last step and caught her breath. “She wants to show us off. Like she draws attention to her fancy rugs by tapping her foot on them. Or the way the merchants display goods at the fair. Hurry now.”
They changed and rushed to the great hall, where the head table was draped in fresh white and green linen. From the hearth a fire burned, casting a flickering light in the dark corners of the hall where the sunlight couldn’t reach.
They approached the dais, where the head table was already occupied. An older couple dressed in finery, seated in the place of honor; Lady Anne, Sir Cyrill, and Father Bernard, who looked aged enough to have seen the Crusades firsthand. And a tall, lovely young woman Sharai had never seen before. Lady Emilyne.
The hall grew silent.
Lady Anne crooked her finger at Sharai. “Kadriya, be seated with Britta. Sharai, come you here.”
Sharai felt the unpleasant sting of many eyes upon her. She had performed on stage, but to strangers, in a simple game of fantasy. Titles mattered not in entertainment. Here, rank was clear, and she was far from being a star on this stage. Here, Lady Emilyne reigned, the woman who possessed enough wealth and power to buy Tabor.
With each step forward, Sharai donned another heavy cloak of humility. They weighed her down like chain mail, like the time in the dusty streets of Marseilles, where she was humiliated and sold.
But she’d sought nobility, she thought ruefully, and now she must follow its rules. Executing the slow, graceful bow she had seen the noblewomen offer each other at Winchester’s grand cathedral, Sharai greeted Lady Anne. “My lady.”
Two seats to Anne’s right sat a tall man of considerable volume, his brown hair assaulted by grey. His round nose dominated his clean-shaven face, which had seen at least fifty summers. Lady Emilyne’s father, no doubt, the Earl of Marmyl. An earl.
An older woman sat between the earl and Lady Anne, likely Emilyne’s mother, the countess. Her light brown hair peeked out from her white veil, which draped around her ample bosom, held in uncertain captivity by taut red damask.
Tabor’s bride-to-be wore her light brown hair netted and veiled in white. She had alert green eyes and clear skin, and wore a green velvet gown that enhanced her eyes. She looked to be over twenty summers, but Sharai could spy no wrinkles.
Lady Anne clapped her hands, a small gesture Sharai had come to recognize as a sign of great pleasure. “This is my servant, Sharai.” Lady Anne drew out each syllable of her name. “She is from Little Egypt.”
Sharai cringed inwardly at being referred to as a servant, but kept her head held high.
Lady Emilyne examined her, her expression a mixture of interest and aversion. “What a curiosity. I have heard these ‘Gypsies’ have dark powers with animals.”
Anne had the decency to share a glimpse of embarrassment with Sharai before she turned to the older woman to her right. “Sharai is a princess in her homeland of Little Egypt, and she sews my gowns.”
Emilyne put fingers to Lady Anne’s sleeve hem, checking the stitches. “Excellent work. Mayhaps she could sew my wedding gown? I would enjoy her services.”
Sharai’s muscles tensed. They speak of me as if I were not here.
“Forgive me, Lady Emilyne,” Sharai said, “but I have several gowns to finish for Lady Anne before my contract expires in a fortnight.” Sharai would push a one-wheeled wagon to Rome before she would sew Emilyne a wedding gown. A gown in which to wed Tabor. Sharai’s stomach turned in distress.
Lady Anne laughed too loudly. “A trifling detail, Sharai. We shall extend your contract to accommodate Lady Emilyne.” She nodded to Lady Emilyne as if that settled it.
“Psst.”
Sharai turned to learn the source of the sound and saw Britta, making a space at the lower table, just behind her.
Sharai retreated to the lower table, sliding in next to Kadriya.
Though delicately seasoned, the steamed eels stuck in Sharai’s throat. She tried to avoid looking at Lady Emilyne, and became angry with herself when she could not do so.
Emilyne’s mouth, though small, was well formed. She appeared to have no breasts, then Sharai noted her sloped shoulders and realized that Lady Emilyne was a tall woman and self-conscious about it.
Britta made a clucking sound, and her pox-ridden skin stretched into a smile. “A fine one, ain’t she? Her da, the Earl, was great in his time. Captured over a hundred Frenchmen at Agincourt and King Harry gave him more than ten properties afore he died.”
Sharai started. “Ten castles?”
“Two. The rest are manors. All large. And he serves in the king’s high court. Imagine.” She t
wisted a long strand of her grey hair back under her hood. “Lord Tabor’s moved hisself up nicely with Emilyne, he has. Emilyne’s worth a dozen of Aurora, by gad.”
“Aurora? Wasn’t she William’s wife? The one who died in the Hungerford siege?”
“Aye. Tabor was sweet on her, but Aurora was clever.” Britta lowered her voice. “William was the better man, you know. Everyone said so, even old Lord Tabor. Besides, William was the older son and heir, so why would she choose Tabor?”
“But if Tabor loved her—”
“Bosh. What would any woman with good sense do? Wed a second born and wear wool, or wed the heir to Coin Forest and wear silk and fur?” She laughed.
A green-liveried squire rushed to the dais and the hall quieted.
The squire bowed before Lady Anne. “My lady, one of our Fritham pigeons just arrived. A message.” He offered her something small.
Lady Anne accepted it, carefully unfolding the paper. She squinted at the message, then dropped her face into her hand.
Lady Marmyl touched her elbow. “What is it, dear?”
“Tabor. Lord Hungerford has imprisoned him.”
* * * * *
In the solar, Sharai wove the needle deftly through the light silk, turning the tiny hem with invisible stitches. It pierced through the delicate weave, in and out, drawing the fine white thread Kadriya had prepared for her.
Worry stilled her hands. Her reading of Tabor’s palm had been accurate. Tabor was held captive by a man who had already tried twice to kill him. Tabor would die, if he had not done so already. Her amulet had not protected him.
But it should have. She’d followed her mother’s formula, using seasoned bacon fat. She had ground the rain worms and spiders and collected their oil, just as she had learned.
All for naught.
She envisioned the sharp angles of Tabor’s face, the proud set of his jaw. The way his brown eyes would widen ever so slightly when he looked at her, and the passion that darkened them when they kissed.
He’d been generous with her, and gentle. And kept his promise never to force her, though she knew he’d been tempted.
How ridiculous, Sharai, she scolded herself. She ached with a loss of something she had never possessed. If he’d lived, he would have been Lady Emilyne’s, bought and legally contracted.
