by Susan Wiggs
He leaned forward, poking his head out of the alcove. “I think I got us out of sight before anyone noticed. I am quick, you know. Your friend Laszlo has been teaching me the art of throwing daggers.”
“Throwing daggers?” She almost laughed. “You?”
“I’m quite good. Shall I demonstrate?”
“No!” She grabbed his wrist. “My lord, I must return to my table.”
Algernon gave the blade one last look, then handed it back, and she secured it in its jeweled sheath. As she returned to the high table, she could not help but notice how quickly Algernon found his way to Thomas Cromwell. The little gossip. He was probably telling Lord Privy Seal that the baroness of Wimberleigh was an assassin.
The thought fled as her husband appeared, all solicitousness, holding out her chair at the table haute. Only Juliana could see the sharp sparks of fury in his eyes.
“Enjoy your little tryst, my lady?” he demanded in a low voice.
“Tryst?” She frowned down at her hands, then remembered the word from the writings of the loathesome Saint Chrysostom. “Ah, a secret meeting of lovers.” She discovered an astonishing fact. Her husband was jealous.
She barely had time to ponder this amazing notion when she glanced at their royal guest and realized something else.
So was the king.
“By Christ’s knees,” Henry grumbled. “This is absurd, sitting in the damp cold outside. What is your wife about, Wimberleigh?”
Stephen feigned a grin of nonchalance. In truth he had no earthly idea. “She wished to see to Your Majesty’s entertainment.”
“Good. Lynacre’s such a gloomy place. Where in God’s name did you find those musicians? A charnel house?”
The royal entourage surrounded the king and they proceeded out into the west field, a grassy sward tucked into a broad bend of the river. Torchlight licked the darkness, and for a moment the orange flames were all Stephen could see. As his eyes adjusted, he realized what he was looking at.
“My God,” someone whispered. “What madness is this?”
Juliana’s madness, thought Stephen. The pitch torches were set in a half circle, close enough to the water’s edge to reflect in the river so that, from a distance, the circle looked complete.
In the center of the makeshift stage stood Rodion, playing the pipes as a huge bear danced in circles. Most of the courtiers stood with mouths agape. The ranking members, starting with the king, filed toward the benches. Stephen saw Mandiva dart forward and furtively relieve Cromwell of his silver-gilt scent ball.
Henry slapped his thick thighs and barked with laughter. “Now that is entertainment!” he declared, and the rest of the court joined his hearty applause. Stephen then began to understand. Whatever else she might be, Juliana was no fool.
The king expected the gypsies to give him reason to tolerate their presence. This, then, was her way of proving the worth of her people.
It might work, Stephen thought. The gypsies were accomplished performers, creating a vivid torchlit tapestry of juggling, saber dancing, sleight of hand, whirling skirts and acrobatic feats. The company oohed and aahed and occasionally huzzahed, and the king lifted his cup in a high salute.
Well done, little wife, Stephen thought grudgingly. Perhaps indeed the display would convince Henry to leave the gypsies in peace.
His silent compliment came a moment too soon. The crowd of gypsies parted and Juliana rode forth on an agile white pony.
Stephen’s intake of breath was echoed by the gasps of the rest of the company. It was Juliana, and yet it was not. She had unbound her hair and dressed in Romany garb. Her feet were bare, her slim ankles circled by cheap tin bangles.
“Is she always this entertaining, Wimberleigh?” Henry asked.
Stephen thought of his strange wife: the horse thief, galloping off on Capria; the ragamuffin, sputtering like a wet cat in the millstream; the virago, furiously banishing gamblers from the hall; the gentle lady, offering her heart-melting sympathy; and finally, the lover, sighing and clinging to him with newfound passion.
He shook off the thought. “She is as wild and unpredictable as a spring storm, sire.”
She rode as if the wind bore her, the light-stepping horse responding to the slightest tug of the reins, its movements as fluid as a banner of silk on a breeze. Gypsy music accompanied the pony tricks, the melody frenzied and underscored by the primal, raw thump of a skin drum. With one hand on the reins, she stood, her feet firm against the bare back of the horse. Her hair flowed out behind her, and Stephen thought of women like Boadicea, or Jeanne d’Arc, who faced peril with courage and panache.
Juliana delighted the crowd with a fluid dance on the back of a galloping horse. Pavlo entered the circle of light and loped along at the heels of the horse. She finished with a flourish worthy of a court reveler, bringing the horse to a sliding stop in front of the king. Stephen could see the horse’s sides fanning in and out, the motion matched by the rise and fall of Juliana’s chest, dewy with sweat above the bodice. A hunger gripped him, and he shifted uncomfortably, planting one foot on the bench and bringing his leg up to conceal an untimely swelling.
He could not help but think she caused the same discomfort to the other men present. Her cleverness had misfired. Perhaps the king would henceforth look more kindly on gypsies, but at what cost?
Juliana tossed her head and smiled boldly at the king, her eyes aglitter with reflected torchlight.
“My God, she doth give me a fright,” muttered the king. He curled his lip in scorn. “She’s only a gutter-born gypsy at heart.” His dandified companions tucked their hands into their sleeves, no doubt making secret signs against evil.
And at that moment, Stephen realized she had triumphed.
Brava, my lady, he thought. Bravissima.
The horse executed a charming bow, its forelegs bending and head lowering. From her perch on its back, Juliana did likewise. Then she was gone as suddenly as she had come.
Cromwell shouldered his way through the crowd toward the king. In his wake came the pretty earl of Havelock, a smug look of triumph on his face.
Stephen grabbed his arm as he passed. “What are you up to, Algernon?”
His china-blue eyes widened in innocence. “I merely had some business with Lord Privy Seal. I’ve yet to be invited to court. I only hope to convince Cromwell of my value.” With a mysterious smile, he moved off.
The king seemed distracted, almost startled when he saw Stephen. “Where did your wife go, my lord?”
“I’m never sure on a night like this, sire.” He braced himself, awaiting the order to fetch her.
It never came. The king waved a distracted hand. “She’s mad. You deserve each other. And now I must retire in haste, my lords. We leave at dawn.”
Stephen struggled to conceal his relief. “So soon, my liege? What about your hunting?”
“Lord Privy Seal has remembered some business we must attend in London.”
Unease nagged at Stephen. It had been a strange day at Lynacre, and he could not help but think the king’s business had something to do with him—or his gypsy wife.
Nine
In the wake of the king’s mercifully brief visit, an oddly agreeable domestic routine evolved at Lynacre. The days of high summer enveloped the manor in a golden, dreamlike haze. Stephen felt a sense of peace and rightness that was new to him.
Looking across the estate office and catching a smile from his wife, he tried not to acknowledge the reason for his most unexpected sense of tranquility.
He failed. Even in a heart grown as small and cold and fearful as his, he recognized the power of Juliana’s appeal. In her most fleeting smile, there was a spark of joy that somehow had the power to burn through his doubts and his defenses.
It was incongruous to look upon such a fragile, dainty woman and see strength, and yet it was undeniable. Whether she was studying English books with Nance, teaching the cook to make a fermented drink out of spoiled milk or picking out a tune on t
he virginals, there was a firmness to her resolve that attracted him.
Only in the deepest hour of the night, when she cried out in fear at the nightmares that haunted her, did she show her vulnerability and her mystery. More and more, he dwelt upon her wild claim to be some lost Russian princess. He had begun to notice that she spoke differently to Laszlo than she did to the other gypsies. The words sounded harsher, more clipped. As if they conversed not in Romany but in a different tongue. But it would take a linguist to puzzle that one out, and Stephen did not relish taking his query to Algernon, who was so adept at foreign languages.
“If you stare at me much longer,” Juliana said, intruding on his thoughts, “I shall have to ask Mandiva for a hex breaker.”
Stephen leaned back in his chair and crossed his feet at the ankles. “You mean a man may not look at his wife?”
Color bloomed high in her cheeks, and she ducked her head. “Not in the way you were just looking at me.”
He rose and walked around the desk to stand behind her chair. On the table in front of her lay his plans for a new winnowing box, which she had been studying with a critical eye. With his hand beneath her chin, he drew her gaze to his. Her skin was silky to the touch, and it took all his restraint to keep from placing his lips there, just to the side of her mouth. “And how,” he asked, “was I looking at you?”
“In the way of a sorcerer putting a spell on his victim,” she whispered. “You should not do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because the spell is starting to work.”
Her candor breathed new energy into the sparks that always seemed to dance invisibly between them. He removed his hand and stood upright, shamed at the ease with which he maneuvered her emotions, and even more disturbed by the instant, heated response of his body.
“You need fear no love charms from me,” he assured her. To hide the evidence of his discomfiture, he turned hastily and walked toward the door. “Come, my lady. Master Stumpe wants to see me this morning. The king complained of the meager revenues from Lynacre, so I asked my steward to find a way to increase our yield.”
Red to the ears, he led her out into a small yard enclosed by a high unmortared stone fence. It was a singular notion, including the lady of the house in the business of land management, but Stephen found himself involving her more and more in the routines of Lynacre.
William Stumpe had set up his table under a gnarled old plum tree. Lazy bees droned amid the ripening violet fruit, and from time to time Stumpe swatted at one of the pesky creatures by his ear.
Years earlier, a fever had robbed him of the ability to walk. Stephen vividly remembered his father’s cold dismissal. Unable to work, Stumpe was given a fortnight to leave the manor.
Stephen, just twelve at the time, had implored his father to let the poor man stay on, rather than dragging himself to Bath for a life of begging. When his pleas had failed to move the former baron, Stephen had worked day and night to devise a vehicle for the steward.
The first one had been no more than a crude barrow. Over the years, Stephen had improved and refined his design. William Stumpe’s present conveyance was a three-wheeled seat with handles on the two large side wheels so that Stumpe could propel himself. He sat the contraption like a king on a throne—proud and passionately independent.
Stumpe motioned Stephen to the table. “Look here, my lord,” he said, pointing at a parchment map. “If you enclose these acres for sheep, you could double the size of the flocks.”
“No,” Juliana blurted out before Stephen had a chance to speak. “We will not do that.”
His aging dignity clearly offended, Will Stumpe directed a glare at her. “I beg my lady’s pardon?” he said haughtily.
Juliana smiled. “Granted.”
Stephen bit the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning. Sometimes her secondary knowledge of the nuances of English proved most charming.
“What I meant, dear baroness,” said Stumpe, “was that I see no reason for you to object. Sheep grazing is the way to prosperity—”
“For whom?” she asked, propping her hands on her hips.
Surprise stirred within Stephen. His wife, it seemed, had more hidden depths than a winter bourne.
“Why, for his lordship.” Stumpe spoke slowly, as if he were addressing a halfwit.
“I see. And what of the copyholders who raise crops on the land?” Juliana tapped the spot with a slim finger.
“They lose their leases—”
“—and go begging,” Stephen broke in. “I won’t have it, Will. Her ladyship is right.”
Juliana’s face lit with gratitude. “I am, aren’t I?”
He felt a glow of something—he dared not call it affection—emanating from Juliana. Did it mean so much to her, then, to have his support?
He shook off the thought. “The land here is arable. It stays in the hands of the tenants.”
“If you insist, my lord,” Stumpe said.
“We both insist,” Juliana said.
“I applaud your logic and your concern for the king’s demands,” Stephen said to Stumpe. “But I cannot increase the flocks without taking land from the tenants, and that I will not do.”
“What of this section here?” Juliana asked, indicating a spot near the western bounds of the estate.
Stephen dropped his gaze to hide the blaze of apprehension in his eyes. Why there? he wondered, his mind boiling with secret worries. Why there, of all places? “I think not,” he said quietly, lifting his eyes. “Nothing can be done there, nothing changed.”
“Why not?” She tilted her head to one side.
“It is not suitable. It’s rocky, forested land,” Stephen said.
“Quite so, my lord,” the steward agreed, sucking his tongue. That was another reason Stephen kept him on—Stumpe pretended to know every inch of the estate when in truth his disability kept him to the comfort of his own quarters and immediate gardens.
“The land there is not good for growing things?” Juliana inquired.
She could not know the pain and guilt her innocent query inspired. Stephen’s heart beat with a dull, throbbing ache. “No,” he said, suddenly wanting—needing—to touch someone warm and alive. He took her hand between his own and felt the smooth skin, the fragile bones. “It is not at all a good place for growing things.”
Her eyes, clear as colored glass, focused on him for so long he grew uncomfortable and dropped his hands. Sending him a bewildered smile, Juliana folded her arms across her bosom, unconsciously drawing attention to her pale throat, the delicate structure of her collarbones.
“So, Master Stumpe, his lordship must prosper, yes?” she asked.
Stumpe shot her a suspicious look. “Yes, my lady, else he’ll lose keepership of the royal woods.”
“Why does he not prosper from the wool he already produces?”
With an excess of patience, Stumpe steepled his fingers. “Because the price of raw wool has fallen—”
“Raw wool,” she said. “Fleece that has not been spun or woven. And yet the price of woven cloth soars.”
Stephen was surprised she knew this; then he remembered she had spent the past years wandering the shires and had encountered plenty of opportunities to learn the worth of things. Meg never even knew the color of a shilling, much less the price of cloth.
Stephen studied his wife’s thoughtful frown. Her mind was like a clockwork; he imagined he could see the wheels and cogs turning behind those green eyes.
“We must produce our own finished cloth,” she said, so briskly that she obviously considered it a fait accompli.
Stumpe’s mouth worked like a banked haddock’s. “Produce finished cloth! But who … how … ?”
“The tenants. What do they do when the fields lie shallow—”
“Fallow,” Stephen corrected. “They are idle.”
“But we’d need looms,” said Stumpe.
Stephen considered his special conduits, the vented windows and rooftop cistern were
clearly visible. Then he touched the back of the steward’s wheeled cart. “My dear Stumpe, do you think I could not build a loom?”
“Of course, my lord.” Stumpe slapped his thigh as enthusiasm took hold. Then his eyebrows crashed down into a scowl. “To turn a decent profit, we’d need a huge space. Bigger than the great hall of Lynacre. Not possible.”
“That is not a problem,” Juliana said.
“And why not, pray tell?” Stumpe asked, his impatience now mingling with frustration.
“We shall use the abandoned abbey church,” she said. “Ever since it was destroyed by the Catholic-haters, it has sat idle.”
“Malmesbury!” Stephen exclaimed, and then, inexplicably, he was picking her up, whirling her about with a whoop of gladness, throwing back his head, and shouting with laughter. Then he put her down, gave her a loud, smacking kiss on the lips, and said, “Stumpe, it’s so simple only a crazy woman could have thought of it.”
“The old abbey is a ruin—”
“Not for long,” Juliana said, looking flustered by Stephen’s outburst. “The tenants and gypsies will fix it up.”
Stumpe bobbed his head vigorously and began chattering away about the endless possibilities of a cloth facture right here in the district. With his hands pedaling the wheels of his cart, he wandered away, already making plans. Stephen chuckled, his heart light and full.
Then he noticed Juliana staring at him in the oddest way.
“What?” he asked, unable to wipe the stupid grin off his face. “What is it, Baroness?”
“You,” she whispered in a voice that was soft and full of wonder. She reached up, her hand trembling as she ran her thumb over his lower lip. “I have never seen you smile before, Stephen, never heard you laugh.”
She was right, he realized with a start. The few smiles he had in him, he saved like a miser guarding his fortune. “Was it not you who insisted on a sober husband?”
“Yes. But this is different.” She dropped her small hand, but not her wonder-filled gaze. The summer breeze lifted her hair like a veil, and he fought the urge to bury his hands in its velvety length. “The smile, the laughter. It makes you beautiful. Did you know that?”
