Tabor's Trinket

by Janet Lane

  “That cannot be. You have mistaken the message.”

  “No, my lord.” He pulled a small patch of paper from his bag. “Here it is.”

  The report confirmed his summary. Hungerford gave the silver coins to the young man. “Thank you,” he said, dismissing him.

  Hungerford collected his cane and walked swiftly toward the great hall. Turning the corner of the stables, he walked into a large form that appeared seemingly from nowhere. He peered in the darkness and recognized the broad shoulders and angry eyes.

  Rauf.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Fury claimed Rauf, tensing his jaw and spreading a rash of heat up his neck. He grabbed his father by the collar and pulled him into the darkness between the stable and farrier stalls. “You lied. You do have plans, and you’re hiding them from me.”

  Hungerford slapped his hands away. “Assault me again and you’ll rot in the dungeon.” Light from the bonfire in the bailey played across his father’s features, showing the hard, determined set to his mouth.

  Rauf hesitated. This was no time to challenge the old man, here, among his father’s garrison and friends. Rauf shoved his rage aside. “Forgive me. But you lied to me.”

  “Your temper justifies it. I wanted the plan engaged before you botched it, as you did at St. Giles’ Fair, five years ago.”

  Rauf’s face heated. “Where is she now?”

  “Stay out of it. She’s going to London.”

  “Why?”

  “To snare Tabor. If he reaches her before London, Aydin’s men will kill him, and he will have died at the hand of a Gypsy while chasing his heathen whore.

  “If Tabor doesn’t reach her, she’ll arrive in London and we’ll use her to disgrace him. Blacken her eyes, break her teeth. Drag her in chains and drop her within steps of royal council. Put people on the streets to curse her as a witch.” A thin, deliberate smile softened his features. “Herald her as ‘Tabor’s Trinket.’”

  “You're as weak in the head as you are in your body.”

  Is father flinched at the insult. Good. He had to sink through the layers of his father's stubborn pigheadedness and get him to stop his complicated, hopeless plans.

  “After how she publicly humiliated you, you should like this plan," his father growled. "The council will see a filthy, dark-skinned foreigner. With those flashing, defiant eyes of hers, who would defend her? And if Tabor tries to save her?” He laughed softly. “It will strip whatever scraps of respectability he still has. Either way, Tabor falls.”

  “Ridiculous. Tabor fawns over royalty, and he’s a parish puppet. He would never risk his standing over a whore.”

  “Love can change men. Have you not seen that he's already risked his position because of her? He refused the Marmyl dowry. He's refused a thousand pounds. A thousand pounds," he repeated. "Do not gainsay my plan.”

  “With Tabor gone, your plan is worth spit.” Frustration rang in Rauf’s ears. “I wanted to go straight forth to Coin Forest and kill the swine, but you said no. Now he’s gone. Where do you suppose he is, wise man?”

  “Be patient, Rauf, and you will see how smoothly this runs. Regardless of where Tabor is.”

  Rauf noted the intensity in the old man’s eyes. Arguing would not change his mind, but agreeing might buy Rauf the time he needed to organize his forces. “Aye. I can see some wisdom in it.”

  His father’s brittle smile softened slightly. “Shake off your doubts, son, and you will see. Coin Forest will be ours again.”

  Rauf smoothed his father’s cotehardie and gave him a gentle slap on the back. He understood, all right. Tabor was gone, and the castle was vulnerable. While his father had been busy, weaving his complex plans, Rauf had been occupied, too, extracting oaths of loyalty from select knights of the Hungerford garrison. He’d secured oaths from the youngest, strongest knights.

  They were hungry for a fight, and so was he. The thrill of contest pulsed hot beneath Rauf’s skin, and he shuddered from its power. Before the sun’s rays warmed the earth again, his hand-picked knights would be marching with him to Coin Forest.

  * * * * *

  Sharai, Kadriya, Aydin, and the six knights arrived at a small country manor well before dawn’s light. Sharai shivered in the damp cold. The manor, a crumbling structure with a great hall a third the size of Coin Forest’s and a half-dozen small chambers abovestairs, was covered with an aging thatched roof that in its weakness let water trickle through in steady streams.

  A dark, bewhiskered man in a rumpled brown tunic had introduced himself as Samuel and led Sharai, Kadriya, Aydin, and two knights to the last chamber in the upper hall, a mean, grey room with a sagging bed and a gaping, dead fireplace. Samuel left, closing the door behind him.

  Aydin took Sharai’s hand and turned to the knight named Geoffrey. “Take Kadriya and leave us.” All expression had left Aydin’s face.

  Kadriya shrank from Geoffrey. “Nay. I stay with Sharai.”

  Aydin dropped Sharai’s hand and grabbed Kadriya by the shoulders. “You will obey your king.” His voice ground out, raw as a winter’s wind.

  Sharai rushed forward to pull him from Kadriya. “Let her go!”

  The short knight grabbed Sharai’s arm and jerked her back.

  Kadriya gasped, her eyes flitting to Sharai in question.

  Sharai must grant Aydin his wish to be alone with her, or Kadriya would be hurt defying him. “’Tis all right, Sprig. We need to talk. About Etti,” she finished weakly, trying to find a topic they would reasonably pursue.

  Kadriya stopped struggling.

  Sharai reached up to pull her earring, but grasped only air. Of course. Aydin had ripped it out of her lobe.

  Kadriya saw the gesture, and realization of what they had lost through the course of this night widened her young eyes.

  Sharai gave a slight nod. Aydin had stripped her of her dagger. Kadriya might still have hers, but they were outnumbered by armed men and could not fight their way out of this. “You must needs obey Count Aydin and leave for a bit, Kadriya. Prithee help in the kitchen. I’ll be along.”

  The look of desperation in Kadriya’s eyes tugged at Sharai’s heart. “Away with you now, Sprig. Go, and behave.” She hoped Kadriya would understand that that meant not using the dagger, if she still had it.

  Kadriya allowed herself to be pulled out of the chamber.

  Aydin shut the door.

  His big chest rose and fell quickly, and all traces of affection were gone from his eyes. Something raw and primitive glowed there.

  The air smelled of wet wood, and it filled Sharai’s lungs. The years slipped away and she was eight, in Marseilles, being dragged, screaming, as Master Phillip pulled on the ropes that bound her hands together. Her small feet had dragged on the rotted plank of wood that led down from the slave cart, and splinters pierced the soles of her feet. Her footprints, marked with blood, led to the central arena where men placed bids on the Gypsies.

  Slave buyers circled the market like hungry hawks. One, a short, thin man with fine clothes and small, mean eyes, approached her. His hands reached for her, and she struggled in vain against the ropes at her wrist and feet, and her throat constricted. Shallow, guttural sounds of terror had escaped from her throat that day.

  Now that same sense of helplessness ripped through Sharai. She swallowed the sounds of terror, pushing fear to a place she hoped could hold it. “What did you wish to discuss?”

  Aydin traced her cheek with his fingers, then offered her the earring.

  She touched her torn earlobe, still throbbing from Kadriya’s tentative stitches that mended the torn flesh, and accepted it.

  One by one, he lifted her braids from her chest and placed them over her shoulders. “Forgive me, Sharai, for losing my temper.”

  She cringed. What to say? Neither logic nor honesty had worked before. His eyes were unreadable. “I forgive you.”

  His fingers curled around her arms, drifting upward.

  Her skin crawled.

 
“I should never have let you go. I missed you so.”

  In the hall below, Kadriya yelled a curse in Romani, followed by the sounds of a scuffle. Kadriya’s young life was threatened by Sharai’s failure to leave Coin Forest earlier. Shame weighed on her, but the present held immediate danger. Sharai must pacify him.

  Aydin's face drew near and his breath leaked toward her with that familiar odor, hot and tinged with nameless decay.

  She forced herself to remain still, just as she had in Marseilles when the mean-eyed slave buyer had touched her. Sweet Lord, she had hoped never to suffer such fear again. She clamped her jaw to keep her arms from pushing him away.

  His lips covered hers and he pulled her closer. His lips slid back and forth, and the odor spread, wet, on her mouth.

  She fought the dizziness. She would neither encourage nor discourage him, and he might come to his senses. Or be satisfied with a kiss, she thought, panic rising again in her throat, wanting to scream.

  He ended the kiss. Warmth had returned to his eyes. His gaze dropped to her breasts and his mouth curved into a smile.

  She closed her eyes in a brief prayer. Saints save me.

  His hands circled her neck, perhaps in warning, then slid to her breasts, kneading them like bread.

  The stench from his kiss lingered on her lips, making each breath loathsome. Nausea rose in her throat, and out of necessity she wiped her mouth.

  He saw it.

  He jerked as if she’d slapped him. Lust left his eyes, and his mouth thinned. He slapped her with the back of his hand. “Whore!”

  She backed up two steps, raising her arms in defense.

  “You think your noble is better than me? Let us see how he will like you now.” He lunged at her.

  She put her arms up in defense. “Nay.”

  He pulled her arms down, pinning them behind her. Pushing his short, wide body against her, he pinned her against the wall. He drew his dagger, shoving the point on her face, just below her cheekbone.

  Her heart banged against her chest. Aydin’s brother had disfigured his wife, slashed a knife the width of her cheek so that no other man would look at her.

  The dagger pricked her skin, and Aydin hovered, dagger poised to slash her flesh, as if undecided.

  Immobilized, she could not resist, but she would not give herself to this man. He could scar her, cripple her, kill her, but she would never be his. She was Tabor’s. Only. She closed her eyes preparing for the pain.

  He made a spitting sound.

  Moisture splattered on her face.

  Disgusted, she recoiled and banged her head against the wall, wiping the spittle away.

  “Harlot! You and your noble. He took you like a bull in the pasture, and you asked for more, didn’t you? Whore.” He pushed his hips against hers, his hands gripping her neck. “And you refuse to kiss me. I, who gave you bread and mutton. Let you and your orphan ride my ponies. Arranged for your fabrics. Protected you.”

  His delusion angered her past control. “Wilson protected me, and Etti provided for us. Not you. Etti did it because she loves me.”

  “Fool. She feeds you because your dancing keeps her in coin. Your rich noble feeds you because he likes to bed you. ’Tis I, only I, who love you.” His last words erupted from his gut in a strangled cry. As if cornered, he looked about frantically, then shouted, a loud, guttural release. He pulled her from the wall and grabbed her braids.

  She cried out.

  He drew his dagger, aiming it just behind her.

  Her heart stopped. Her hair! “No!”

  “You will learn to obey me, and you . . . will . . . love . . . me!”

  Teeth bared, he slashed the dagger against her braids, jerking her hair.

  A quick, sharp pain flashed on her scalp, then a sensation of release. “No!”

  He was too strong to stop.

  He pulled away from her, grasping two shining black braids over two feet long.

  “My hair!” The fantasy of her dance, her liveload. She felt a new wave of sickness. “A pox on you!” She reached behind her neck and grabbed the stump of her hair, just below her ears. “How can I dance like this?”

  His lips twisted into a cynical grin. “Indeed.” He held out her severed braids.

  Knowing more venom could harm Kadriya or herself, she held in the words of hatred, took a deep breath and accepted the braids.

  “Now you must help me.”

  She reeled. “After what you have done? Rot in hell.”

  A smile played on his mouth then vanished, and he lowered his voice. “If you want to live, you will help us escape.”

  “Escape? What mean you?”

  “Have you not wondered about these knights?”

  A chill laced down her spine. “Aye.”

  “They are Hungerford’s.”

  Rauf. Caught off guard, she froze. “What are you doing with them?”

  “I was on my way to Coin Forest when they stopped me. They asked me to come with them to take you from Coin Forest. I know Rauf hates you, and I considered myself fortunate to be able to protect you, so I played along with them, accepting money to lure you away.”

  His eyes hooded in pain. “’Twas then that I learned you’d been unfaithful to me. I do everything for you, Sharai. I love you.” He paused, waiting for a response from her.

  She supposed he did love her, in his own twisted way. “I know that, and I thank you for all you have done.”

  Her mind raced. If Hungerford wanted her out of Coin Forest, where did he wish her to be? “Where are they taking me?”

  “To London. I’ve saved your life, Sharai. Now we must escape.”

  Sweet Mary. Aydin was hateful and cruel, but he was trying to protect her from Rauf’s knights. “Very well. What do you want me to do?”

  * * * * *

  Sharai adjusted the scarf that held her shorn hair. The pride she took in her appearance had vanished, replaced with shame and wilting embarrassment.

  She sat at one of two tables in the modest great hall. Rain still tormented the old manor, pressing a gloom upon it that the meager fire could not dispel.

  Lack of sufficient tapestries made all household sounds echo. From the busy kitchen came noises of the scrape of pots being stirred and exchanged as servants rendered fat in large pots over the fire, and the growl of the tall, wiry dogs she’d seen earlier as they fought for scraps.

  Aydin had approached her just before supper. “You must do something to amuse them. Dance.”

  Sharai’s breath caught, and she resisted the impulse to punch him in the eye. Her earlobe festered, hot with pain, and her hair was shorter than most men’s. “Cur! I cannot dance without my hair. It would reveal my disgrace.”

  “Then read their palms.”

  She glared at him. He was jealous, possessive, and abusive, but he’d saved her life, intercepting these Hungerford knights, putting his own life at risk to save her and Kadriya.

  He spoke in a whisper. “I’ll create a distraction. When I do, react but do not move. Wait until they leave the hall, then run out to the bailey. I’ll be waiting.”

  “What of Kadriya?”

  “I have talked with her. She has gone to the Roman highway we passed, a few hundred yards beyond the stable. We’ll meet her there.”

  Caution murmured in her head. “Why should I trust you?”

  “These men are Hungerford’s knights. I shudder to think what they have planned for you.”

  Rauf. A flicker of apprehension coursed through her.

  “I promised Etti I’d bring you back. I am a Gypsy.”

  He voiced his last reassuring statement with raw pride. He would insult and abuse her, but he would not kill her. “Aye,” she agreed.

  And now, her heart beating like a dashing coney in her chest, she entertained these Hungerford knights.

  Sharai nodded to Robert, the youngest of Aydin’s knights. “Your turn. If you wish to hear your future, that is.”

  Geoffrey, the oldest knight, gave her
a wary glance and studied his lifeline again, no doubt wondering when he would meet the strange woman Sharai predicted would break his heart. He rose, still inspecting his hand, and gave his seat to Robert.

  Robert settled into the chair and offered his hand.

  Sharai took it, looked at him through lowered lashes and, working past the bats that flew in her stomach, she assumed the demeanor of her dancing days, distracting him, pulling him from his thoughts of duty. She turned his palm up and brushed it in a light, circular pattern, as if wiping the slate clean to get a better reading, but the touch was intended, too, to create sensations that would fill his mind with things other than duty.

  His pulse beat strongly beneath her fingertips. Propped against the stones surrounding the fireplace, two other knights, Jone, a round-faced dumpling of a knight, and Elyas, a leaner one with dented armor, leaned forward, listening. Two others, Alan and Henry, their upper armor stripped off, were settling against the warm stones of the fireplace, drowsy after the heavy supper and ale.

  Sharai moved her hands rhythmically in the air, humming lightly, creating an otherworldly atmosphere before the reading to make their hair stand on the backs of their necks in anticipation. She traced her fingernail down his head line, pleased to see him start. She had his full attention. “You hesitate with some decisions, but ’tis because you have strong mental capabilities in battle, and realize a bad decision can be a fatal one.”

  Robert’s eyes warmed and a smile teased at his mouth.

  Sharai continued, describing Robert’s heart line, lowering her voice so the others leaned in to catch every word, all the while wanting desperately to look up. Where was Aydin?

  She skimmed her nail on Robert’s lifeline. “Unlike the Gypsies, you do not care to travel the world. You must be cautious, because there are shadows.”

  Robert swallowed audibly. “What kind of shadows?”

  “’Tis a curse that follows you, one that affects your brother and you.”

  “I have no brother.”

  “Then one who is close to you, a cousin?”

  “Aye, my cousin and I lived in—”

  A large clang in the kitchen interrupted him, followed by a splash.