Tabor's Trinket

by Janet Lane

  She was merely a servant in his castle, well fed and sheltered, paid generously for her services. Yet in his presence she felt . . .

  She pierced a few more stitches, then stopped.

  With him, she felt valued.

  A stream of affection and loss rose to her eyes, blurring her vision. Rauf’s nature was dark. Had he tortured Tabor before killing him?

  Rauf. His eyes had held pure hatred for her when she intervened between Rauf and Tabor at the fair. Fear rose in her belly. Rauf would come here to claim the castle. He would finish Lady Anne as he had William and Aurora and Tabor, and Rauf would find her here. With Kadriya.

  Sweet Sprig. Sharai must protect her.

  She studied the grand chamber, spacious and sturdy with its stone, a comfortable room in a secure castle. But Sharai had learned long ago that security could be but an illusion. With Tabor gone, the castle was vulnerable, and so were they. She and Kadriya must leave.

  Chapter Nine

  Father Bernard gave the blessing and dismissed the congregation into the dawn. Sharai lingered just outside, keeping the priest in her sight as she and Kadriya pulled their hoods up to keep out the light rain. She sent Kadriya on to the castle and re-entered the church. As long-standing priest, Father Bernard must know the region and could help her select a safe route away from Coin Forest.

  She found him in the scriptorium. “May I see you, Father?”

  He turned from his tall desk. The old priest’s eyebrows had become white and wild over the years, like a crop of dried wheat after a gale, but his eyes were a kind, pale blue. “Of course, Sharai. What is it?”

  “I seek your advice. It’s about the bad tidings from Fritham.”

  “I pray for Lord Tabor’s safety.”

  “As do I, Father, but what chance can he have, alone in his enemy’s dungeon?” She hesitated. “I fear for our safety, as well, should Rauf return to seize Coin Forest.”

  “Don’t dismiss Tabor. Despite his mother’s criticisms, he’s clever and resourceful, and the situation is not simple.”

  “From what I’ve heard, it does not make much sense. What claim do the Hungerfords have on Coin Forest?”

  Father Bernard returned to his desk. “These hostilities must be confusing, especially since you do not know what’s come before.” He hesitated, as if weighing whether to say more. “The Tabors and Hungerfords were allied at one time. Come.” He walked back to his tall desk. “Look at this.”

  A large parchment filled the desk, a paper streaked with lines and cross lines. Like a giant spider web it stretched vertically and horizontally to cover the entire sheet.

  “I’m researching Lord Tabor’s bloodline back a hundred years,” the priest said. “See, here’s Tabor’s father, Carswell, Baron Tabor. Here,” he pointed to a line that ended, “is Lady Tabor, Margaret.” He turned to her. “Lord Hungerford’s sister.”

  Her name seemed to bounce off the parchment. “Tabor’s father married a Hungerford?”

  "For a brief time, yes."

  Lady Anne’s name appeared beneath Margaret’s, with new lines joining Carswell and Anne and, beneath them, William and Richard. Death dates were recorded for Carswell and William, 1430. Sharai pointed to Margaret’s name, which had no such date. “She still lives?”

  “Aye. Matters of estate can be untidy. The king granted Coin Forest to Lord Hungerford’s father, following the Siege of Harfleur, but years later there was talk of duplicity, some political betrayal by Hungerford. Carswell, Tabor’s father, saved the king’s nephew at Agincourt, and proved extremely loyal. When the opportunity presented itself, the king arrested the elderly Hungerford, pulled the grant and gave Coin Forest to Tabor’s father.”

  “But what happened to Margaret?”

  “Sorcery. I was here when Tabor’s father was stricken from her potion.” He shuddered. “He never fully recovered. Later, Margaret was imprisoned, the marriage annulled.”

  “If the king gave Coin Forest to the Tabor family, why not just settle it in the king’s court and be done with it?”

  “The king is just fourteen, not ready to rule, and his two uncles, when they’re not dealing with the war, fight over the throne. They have bigger problems to solve than bickering nobles and land disputes.

  “And Hungerford’s done his best to make this problem look more complicated than it is.

  “You met Tabor just after the siege. Carswell had just died, the king was in France, and Gloucester, his uncle, was Regent, but he was away in Scotland. Tabor reclaimed it by force, but now Rauf’s father is trying to take it legally by challenging him on a test of unfreedom. It’s an issue of the Tabor family line, and frankly, Gloucester has bigger problems, so it’s been ignored.

  “In London they fight like dogs for control, and the war with France drags on. Again, bigger, more pressing problems.”

  He walked her to the door, signaling the end of their visit. “So you see, Hungerford yearns for something he cannot have. Coin Forest passed from his hands long before he could ever inherit it. He’s too old to see it, perhaps, or too tormented with its loss to accept the reality of it.”

  The facts swam in Sharai’s head like minnows in a bucket. At first glance, these noblemen appeared to be rich and all-powerful but, like tricks of magic and fortune-tales, it was little more than an illusion. There were in fact controlled by a reining monarch, subject to royal whims. In truth they were no better off than Gypsies, fighting for the biggest purse. Granted, the purse was fatter: for the Gypsy, the prize was a pilfered sheep or wild turkey. Or a fine Arabian after a slightly leveraged horse race. For the nobility, the prize was a castle, and power. “So there’s nothing to stop Hungerford from attacking. Nothing to stop him from killing Tabor and marching back to reclaim this castle.”

  “Fret not, my child. We have a fortified castle and a garrison of strong knights to defend us. And an earl in residence,” he added, tipping his head in the direction of Lord Marmyl’s banner, which flew with Lord Tabor’s at the keep. “You and Kadriya are safe.”

  His reassurances rang empty. With Tabor dead, Marmyl would have no interest in Coin Forest. He would leave, and with him would go the protection. “We must leave, but not to St. Giles. Can you help us arrange safe passage to Southampton so we can return to our people?”

  His reassuring smile disappeared, and his blue eyes filled with concern. “You will not leave Coin Forest.”

  “My stay has been temporary from the beginning, Father.”

  His features grew stern. “You cannot leave.”

  She thought of the bandits that infested the countryside. “I understand. The roads are unsafe. Perhaps we can join other travelers at a nearby monastery?”

  His wild brows drew together in a frown, and his blue gaze impaled her. “Did not Father Robert baptize you in Winchester?”

  “Aye, but—”

  “And I baptized Kadriya. You have entered into a new spiritual life with Christ. You are both Christians now. You cannot return to those heathens.” He spat out the word with loathing.

  His grip squeezed the flesh of her hands, stinging the wounds from the stilt splinters, and his eyes flashed with a fire she’d never seen before. “You will not leave.”

  * * * * *

  Tabor awoke in a room of grey. A damp cold had penetrated his bones, and his hands were numb. He raised an arm to check his face, felt a weight on his wrist and heard metal clanging. His right wrist was chained to a stone wall. He bolted upright. He was in a crude cell, a small U-shaped enclosure eight feet wide and half that deep. It opened into a larger room with similar cells. He sat in straw over damp earth that smelled of urine and sickness, and he shivered from the cold.

  He struggled to a sitting position and leaned against the wall. Weak light filtered in from two small windows high above.

  His ribs hurt with every breath, and his lip was so swollen he could see it by looking down. He felt for his dagger. Gone, as he expected, but he still had Sharai’s amulet. It had protected h
im thus far. Mayhaps he would have to eat the foul-tasting contents to ward off starvation in this hellhole.

  “He’s awake.” A dark-haired man with a pinched mouth watched him from a cell across from him. He wore a wool doublet and had been imprisoned long enough for a scraggly beard to have grown. Everything about him was thin, his lips, his arms, his fingers. Behind him, another man, white-haired and dressed in merchant’s clothing, rested on a thin bed of hay.

  Tabor dabbed at his swollen jaw. “How long have I been here?”

  The dark-haired man pinched his thin mouth tighter. “Since morning, and dinner was served two bells ago.”

  Tabor rubbed his swollen jaw.

  “I’m Will, and this is Ben,” he said, gesturing to the prone man. And you?”

  “Richard. Is John here? My friend. He was with me.”

  “No one here but we three. We’ve been rotting down here for over a fortnight.”

  Peering more closely, Tabor noted Will’s fine fabric and the fashionable length of his doublet. “How did you come to be here?”

  “I’m accused of thievery—”

  “Not true, by gad,” Ben interrupted.

  “—but never did I approach Lord Hungerford’s wardrobe without his orders.”

  “He stole nothing,” said Ben. “I worked with Will in court. He is a loyal, trustworthy scribe,” said Ben. “He’s innocent, but we must get free to prove it.”

  In his legal duties as baron, Tabor had heard his share of innocence pleas but had never denied the accused a chance to gather witnesses or evidence. “Those who know the integrity of your character will surely speak up.”

  “We hope.” Will regarded Tabor. “What brought you here?”

  “Bad judgment,” Tabor replied ruefully. “My friend, John, was with me at the alehouse.”

  Ben nudged Will’s arm. “The tavern. I heard the guards speak of that. One escaped. Mayhaps he got free.”

  The sound of jingling keys gained Tabor’s attention. The gate opened, and three guards entered.

  One, the guard from the alehouse, wore a collection of bruises and a dark expression of revenge. He strode to Ben and Will’s chamber pail and lifted it. After determining that Tabor grasped his intent, the guard flung the contents in Tabor’s direction.

  Tabor dodged it, but much of the vile liquid splashed on his hose and shoes. “You bloody bastard.”

  The guard walked almost nose-to-nose to him, daring him to strike. “Swine peasant.” He showered Tabor’s face with spittle.

  Tabor lunged at him.

  The guard backed up.

  Tabor swung but he had reached the last few links of his chain. It snapped taut, and Tabor’s arm jerked to a stop. Pain shot through his elbow and shoulder, and he grunted in pain.

  The other guard released Tabor’s shackle from the wall and pulled him roughly out the door.

  Behind him, Will raised his hands, waving to get Tabor’s attention. “Please, Richard, tell Father Charles to get us out.”

  The guard turned to Will. “Wave that hand while you can, thief. We’ll soon chop it off.”

  Will jerked his hand down, hiding it behind his back.

  The guard tugged on Tabor’s chain and kicked him forward.

  Tabor gritted his teeth from the pain of each step. They emerged from the gatehouse and crossed the bailey. The sun blinded Tabor, and he struggled to see.

  As they approached the main door, a squire brought the guard a katch-polly, a human prodding stick. They would settle the hook around his neck and he would be herded, like a common criminal, before the man who controlled the crown of England.

  A pox on Hungerford! Tabor would die before bearing such indignity. He was an Ellingham, by gad, a knight with honor, which is more than could be said for the thieving Hungerfords.

  Tabor leapt forward, jerking the katch-polly from the surprised squire’s hands. He pushed the squire into the guard and ran, limping with the chains, toward the manor.

  Two guards circled behind Tabor. “Get him.”

  Tabor worked his way closer to the stone entrance. With a final grunting effort he swung the katch-polly into the stone wall.

  The metal head crashed into the stone, sending sparks. The wood splintered, and the damnable head device broke free from the stick, rendering it useless.

  Grumbles and shouts filled the air, and the guards jumped Tabor, flattening him to the ground.

  Lord Hungerford appeared in the doorway. The man was thin as a pikestaff, and his shoulders drooped as if he carried the burden of the world on them. “Idiot. Bring him in.”

  They entered the grand hall and approached the dais, and Tabor’s sense of victory quickly faded.

  There, above the high table, was his father’s bridal gift to his mother, a Venetian tapestry of a falcon hunt. Its real home was above the fireplace in Tabor’s mother’s bedchamber. Hungerford had stolen it, along with the other tapestries, after he murdered William during the plunder of Coin Forest.

  Fury clamped Tabor’s jaw until his teeth hurt. Short temper. You react too quickly. Sharai’s words echoed, and he pushed the prized tapestry out of his mind. He would act on it later.

  Rauf sat at the high table to the right of his father and Lord Hungerford was just seating himself, between his son and Bishop Garrew. The Bishop. The disappointment in his eyes wilted Tabor and he wished he could slip into the cracks of stone beneath his feet.

  Rauf’s face resembled a badly bruised apple, evidence of Tabor’s blows. A gratifying sight. At the center of the high table sat Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester and chief counselor to the king, wearing a purple silk doublet and cloaked in black Douai velvet.

  Aware of his own stench, that of fresh feces and urine, Tabor struggled with a tattered dignity so diminished it could fit in the eye of Sharai’s needle. His tunic hung, torn and exposing half his chest, and his hair clung to his forehead, tousled and greasy from his disguise. His face was swollen from the tavern fight. He summoned what grains of dignity he could muster and bowed to Gloucester. “Your Grace.”

  Just past thirty, Gloucester had the same strong nose of his brother, King Henry the Fifth, and keen eyes that missed little. Disbelief widened them now, and his thick brows were raised. “Lord Tabor? Is that you?”

  Tabor closed his eyes in an effort to stop the sick sense of failure. As a child, he’d known the feeling well. At four and twenty, he thought it was just a limitations of youth, but here he was again, falling short of others’ expectations. Not his father this time, or his brother, but a member of the royal court and the most powerful man in England.

  He met Gloucester’s gaze. “Forgive my appearance, Your Grace, I’ve been imprisoned here against my will and—”

  “A tall tale,” Hungerford interrupted. “Tabor appears in the same clothes in which he was found, brawling in my alehouse. He came like a thief, unannounced, reveling with the whores.”

  “Visiting with pilgrims,” said Tabor.

  Gloucester cocked his head. “Dressed in this manner?” He sniffed and regarded Tabor with lips curled in revulsion. “Your father would experience the pain of death all over again if he were to see you thus. What say you?”

  Tabor considered his response. Gloucester had to know of the siege; Tabor had reported it and it was most likely Gloucester behind the king’s directive that Tabor keep the peace. He must risk Gloucester’s ire by defending himself. “The Hungerfords attacked Coin Forest. Killed my brother, William, and his wife. Spread rumors about the integrity of the Ellingham bloodline, and two days ago they threatened my family’s life once again.”

  “So you retaliate by dressing as a peasant and soiling yourself?”

  Rauf rose. “Lies. We know nothing of pigeons—”

  “Pigeons?” Tabor challenged him. “I said nothing of pigeons. You nailed a bloodied pigeon on my church door, laced with threats. You expose your guilt.”

  “And you can see by beholding him,” Lord Hungerford continued, ignoring him, “that Lord Ta
bor creates his own questions about the . . .” He cleared his throat. “The integrity of his bloodline.”

  “Lord Hungerford, do you have adequate reason to question Lord Tabor’s lineage?”

  Hungerford cast a dark look at Tabor. “Aye, I have evidence, Your Grace.”

  “And Lord Tabor, you can present armorial bearings sufficient to defend your bloodline?”

  “Aye. The Ellinghams are lineally descended over ten generations.”

  “And I imagine you don’t have them on your person.”

  “No.”

  Gloucester signaled to his scribe. “Record this. That Harry, Baron Hungerford, and Richard, Baron Tabor, shall meet three weeks hence at King’s Council. Bring your proof, present your case, and let us be done with this nonsense.”

  Gloucester rose, and all present followed suit.

  “Lord Hungerford.” A chill hung in the air on the edge of Gloucester’s words. “London is recovering from yet another outbreak of plague. We lost men in parliament, the judiciary, and several in the treasury—in my own household.

  “We are at war. I experience sufficient political intrigue in London and now Arras, as well. I do not expect it here, when taking air and rest in the countryside.” Gloucester took a breath. “At your invitation.”

  Hungerford assumed a contrite expression. “Forgive me, Your Grace, I had nothing to do with—”

  “And Lord Tabor. I expect your good father died too suddenly. You need to grow into your position. You dishonor your bloodline, your knighthood, and your king. I trust you will cease such boyhood pranks and that you will present yourself more appropriately when I next see you. At court.”

  * * * * *

  Later that morning, Tabor stalked through the village of Hungerford. Daylight struggled through the stubborn layer of dark clouds, falling on dingy buildings. Like a harlot with greasy skirts, the high street bared its neglect. Some merchant stalls faced the street with broken shutters, others with crumbling masonry. The market, half the size of Coin Forest’s, was ill attended. The smoked fish looked good, but the peas, beans, and onions bore evidence of rot, a sign of improperly drained fields. George, the pilgrim, and his friends were there to buy provisions. They picked through the inferior offerings, their faces pinched in disappointment.