by Janet Lane
“A craftswoman.” Anne’s laughter bubbled like a pebbled brook in springtide. “My dear, you are but a woman. And lovely. Just look at you.” She held Sharai’s hands out, examining her as if she were one of the small, exotic dolls offered at the French fairs.
“Red skirt, all those fine yards of linen.” She touched Sharai’s skirt, raised her thin, ribbon-like brows and corrected herself. “Lawn, rather, I should say. Very fine.” Her gaze traveled upward. “Dark skin, enchanting eyes, all this finery.” She fingered Sharai’s bracelet and gold earrings. “Welcome to Coin Forest, my dear.” She linked her arm with Sharai’s and led her to the drawbridge. “Well done, Tabor. You have excelled for a change.”
Tabor’s smile faded. “Prithee give Sharai her own room, Mother. Near yours, for your convenience.”
The tension between mother and son chilled the air. Sharai gestured to Kadriya. “Come, Sprig.”
Lady Anne scrutinized Kadriya’s light hair and almond skin. “Your daughter? But her light coloring . . .”
“My adopted sister,” Sharai explained.
“Well, then, come along. Sprig?”
Sharai smiled. “Her nickname. Her name is Kadriya.”
“Kadriya. Lovely. Very foreign,” she said, her tongue embracing the word. “By all means she shall be known as Kadriya.”
The sound of lapping water on boats came from below the drawbridge. An unhappy pig stumbled from one of the boats to dry land, grunting in relief.
Lady Anne covered her bulging waistband with her arm. “Doubtless you noticed my gown. I’m in desperate need of tailored clothes. Most were pillaged during the siege and I’ve struggled finding a competent seamstress. Little Egypt. So far away. I must hear all about it.”
You would not wish to hear of my travels. “Living in such a beautiful place as this, I can’t imagine leaving it.”
“Thank you, Share-eye,” Lady Anne said, stretching the syllables of her name.
They passed through the outer curtain, patched here and there with a lighter colored stone, and entered the crowded bailey.
The castle was guarded by great towers and many knights, and secured with a sturdy portcullis. Men would have great trouble breaking in, as they had in her small home years ago. The walls of stone brought a comforting sense of security.
Curious eyes raked Sharai as thoroughly as Lady Anne’s had, and self-consciousness made her tighten her scarf.
Lady Anne shooed the chickens and geese aside and pressed past the people.
In the great hall, a group of women had positioned themselves by the entrance, curiosity lighting their eyes.
Lady Anne fairly bubbled in excitement, gesturing expansively and introducing Sharai. “My new seamstress. Tabor finally made himself useful and brought me my own seamstress,” she gushed.
More criticism toward Tabor, and publicly, at that. Sharai cringed at her lack of appreciation. Before she left, Etti had told her how much Tabor had paid for her services. Sharai acknowledged the woman and scanned the great hall. Ivory linen draped the high table, fire burned in a massive fireplace taller than her, and a rich tapestry of deer hung on the wall, just like in the stories she’d heard.
Next to her, Kadriya’s mouth gaped.
Sharai gestured for her to shut it. Later she would praise her for keeping quiet.
They ascended the circular staircase, Lady Anne huffing from the climb.
“Your chamber, Sharai. Yours and Kadriya’s.”
My chamber. Sharai had never had her own chamber. She’d once shared a small room with her cousins. Dazzled with the thought, she passed through the heavy doorway.
A dark fireplace held fresh wood, waiting to be lit to drive away the impending evening chill. A large bed to the left, covered by ornate woodwork from which curtains of forest green linen hung. Sharai approached the bed and ran her hands along the covering. Down, cool, smooth as poured cream and soft as a sigh. She glanced at Sprig.
Sprig, focused on twitching the canopy tassels, didn’t notice.
Sharai suppressed the urge to fall on the soft bed and sigh in delight. “’Tis lovely, my lady. Thank you.”
Lady Anne pulled a bell suspended by a rope near the bed. “I offer my best, and I trust you will give me yours.” She opened a shutter, and a cross-shaped loophole in the stone cast a shaft of sunlight onto the fine rug beneath her bed.
An old woman entered the room. Her thin, greying hair peeked out from her hood. Her gown was of coarse, undyed linen. The sun highlighted her skin, ravaged by pox, but her grey eyes were clear, and kind.
“Britta, this is Princess Sharai from Little Egypt. She will be my seamstress for the festival. And her sister, Kadriya. Fetch fresh water for her basin so she may prepare for supper.”
Britta gave Sharai the same intense head-to-foot examination, but she did it swiftly and less conspicuously. “Aye, my lady.”
Lady Anne clapped her hands in excitement. “You will give me a hand reading after dinner, my dear, will you not?”
“I beg your pardon?”
Lady Anne made a waving gesture with her hand. “You Little Egypt people are skilled at that, I’ve heard. You will read my palm and tell my fortune tonight.”
* * * * *
Tabor entered his mother’s chamber and found her adjusting the coat-of-arms pin she wore, a horizontal sword threading three silver circles. His father had given it to her shortly before his death.
“You look well, Mother.”
Her hands fluttered to her veil. “I’m pleased with Princess Sharai. She will read my palm tonight.”
He blinked back a vision of Sharai’s gleaming curls in the stage light. “She has many talents.”
Lady Anne gave him a knowing smile. “As you might rightly know. Besides snaring me my exotic seamstress, how was your trip to St. Giles?”
“Lucrative. We have new armor and eight good horses.” He never disclosed his method of raising funds. But then, Lady Anne had never shown an interest in such things.
“And blue silk?”
“The perfect shade. I brought ten bolts for your fancy.”
“You’re doing better.”
The barb stung. He rounded his right shoulder, trying to dislodge it. “We must speak of finances. I spied the new carpets. We agreed before I left that now was the time to preserve our funds. “
“How can we have the Lords Bromley, Frodesham, and Hardgrove here with bare floors in the bed chambers, Tabor? Really. And the bishop. Surely you see.”
He knew. They were his neighbors, guild leaders of the All Saints Parish of Hampshire. Five generations of his family had been guild leaders. Still, he must tie his mother’s loose purse strings. “You try my patience.”
“Did you see Lord Hungerford?”
“Aye, and Rauf.”
“That they roam the countryside freely is pure outrage. Did you speak?”
“Nothing civil.”
She gave him a look of pity, as if she preferred not being bothered by him, but he was her last living son and, like a bad case of dysentery, she must deal with it. “He killed your brother and Aurora, and still he walks freely, tainting your father’s name. Why can you not kill him?”
“And defy a royal order? I can not protect you from the confines of a dungeon, Mother.”
“As I see it, you can not very well protect me anywhere.”
He slammed his fist on the table and her wine tipped, landing with a clank and a splash on the floor. “Always you needle. Do you think I’ve forgotten my brother and Aurora? And our home, its treasury, in Hungerford’s hands? I’ve served the king well. Almost lost my arm in Normandy, yet here I am, hands tied. Our bloodline is questioned.”
“’Tis all in your mind.”
“You’ve heard the whispers. Did you not complain to me of it afore I left for Winchester? We were the most respected family in Hampshire. Now Hungerford’s slurred it. God’s bones. What are we, if not noble? Mere peasants.” He shuddered at the nakedness of the word.
>
“Yes, and--.”
“Our properties are at stake, Mother. The king has ordered me to keep the peace. Cast no more shadows on my skills.” He picked up the goblet, slamming it on the table. “You will spare me any future insults.”
She covered his hand. “I have news.” Her smile grew wide, and her eyes held a telltale sparkle. “I received a response yesterday from Lord Marmyl. He answered my counter for Lady Emilyne’s dowry.”
His mother and Lord and Lady Marmyl were in wedding negotiations for Emilyne and Tabor. “Good news?”
“Very. Better than we thought.”
“Tell me.”
She settled on the chair, preening the folds of her skirt, her grin forcing dimples in her cheeks.
“Mother?”
Her eyes glistened. “One . . . thousand . . . pounds.”
* * * * *
A massive log collapsed into the fire, sending sparks flying in the great hall’s fireplace.
The heat felt welcome to Sharai, the sturdy walls comforting. With the exception of an occasional night at a monastery or church, she hadn’t spent an evening in a permanent building in years, and never in one so grand as this.
She sat at the left end of the high table nearest the fire. Next to her sat the priest, Father Bernard; then Sir John, Lady Anne, Lord Tabor, and Sir Cyrill.
Dinner had been a festival. Fine silver ewers of water to clean their hands. Boar’s meat with a tangy mustard sauce. Eel, minced chicken, and baked fish with tantalizing spices. Fine red wine in more silver goblets, and a sweet confection that had melted in her mouth. Sharai had savored every bite, to the point she could hardly breathe. She pulled at her tight waistband with a new appreciation for Lady Anne’s strained side seams.
Something tugged on Sharai’s skirt. She jerked her legs back with a gasp and looked under the table.
Kadriya’s disheveled curls came into view. “Kadriya, nay,” she whispered. “Go you back to the lower tables.”
“That Tommy boy plagues me. He keeps pulling my hair. I want to sit with you.”
Sharai glanced toward Lady Anne, who continued to pick at her food, even after all the courses had been served. “High table is reserved for important people,” Sharai explained, talking into her lap.
“So why are you sitting here?”
Sharai muffled her laugh. “I have no illusions. Lady Anne thinks me an unusual ornament. She will have me read her palm. As to Tommy, did I not teach you how to defend thyself?”
“Then I may slog him?”
“Quietly.”
“Sharai.” Lady Anne’s voice interrupted them.
“My lady?”
“Be you possessed, talking to yourself? Prithee come, and read my palm.”
* * * * *
Tabor placed a set of pouldrons on the high shelf, adding it to the growing collection of armor. He handed a helm to Cyrill. “This needs repair. And this cuirass needs sanding.”
They placed the pieces on the armorer’s worktable. The room smelled of metal and wood and sweat. And images of death.
Cyrill added the helm, and it clanged against the other pieces. “Good to be home.” He patted his stomach. “What a fine meal last eve.” He measured Tabor with his grey eyes. “What troubles thee, milord?”
“This shelf.” Tabor ran his hands along a storage shelf behind the anvil. “Aurora hid here during the siege.”
“Aye. You tried to save her.”
“But failed.”
Cyrill sighed in exasperation. “Ignore your mother’s criticisms. She’s never pleased, my lord.”
“Lord Marmyl has met her demands.”
Cyrill smiled, his grey mustache rising. “Excellent news. The treasury will be replenished. And her father an earl. That should shore up your standing with the parish, and the king.” His grey brows creased. “You’re not sure of the Lady Emilyne? She’s a handsome woman. And strong. She should give you healthy heirs.”
“Aye.” The Lady Emilyne stood tall, possessed strong bones, long brown hair, clear green eyes, and a cool disposition.
“She’s also above reproach. Exemplary. You could not make a better match. In this your mother has been faithful.”
“Sooth, I know this.”
“Aurora toyed with you. ’Twas misery you felt, my lord, not love.” He paused. “I see you rented more books at St. Giles. I took the liberty of reading the titles.” He frowned and met Tabor’s gaze. “I would that you cease reading those Arthurian legends. ’Tis all fiction, tall tales. And Chaucer’s yarn of knights?” He shook his head in disapproval. “Stay you grounded in reality, milord. Lady Emilyne will be good for you. And Coin Forest.”
“Forsooth.” Tabor clapped his hands together, dusting them off. “Please finish the inventory. I must tend to my birds.”
Tabor climbed the circular stairwell, following its upward curve. His muscles responded with strength, and his blood pumped sure in his chest, but strange, disquieting thoughts came to him. The girl, Sharai, the look of greed in her eyes when she spoke of her rich noble. The Lady Anne, the same look in her eyes when she spoke of the thousand pounds.
He couldn’t reconcile the joy of love he read about in his books to the cold reality of marriage. When he was younger, he was certain he could find the love he’d felt for Aurora, with another woman. She would be lovely and warm and come from a good family, with a good dowry—or fair; it needn’t be large. Love was more important.
Then the siege, the stripped treasury, and Hungerford’s insidious claims about questionable nobility, and they’d watched their standing among their peers—both here and in London—sink lower than the moat. His notions of love were only fond dreams. His mother’s delight at Emilyne’s dowry was based on need, while Sharai’s childish dreams were based on simple greed.
Sharai, free as a butterfly, fealty to none. She had no estates, no honor to salvage. Mayhaps women craved the comforts of wealth, but a man had a duty to his people. Tabor governed his properties in peace and fairness, while Rauf ruled with force and terror. Tabor would spare them from Rauf and save his estates for his heirs. Noble causes.
Dowries, negotiations. ’Twas the way of the world. And Lady Emilyne was a very good match. He closed his eyes, willing a jot of enthusiasm to surface. It didn't.
Chapter Six
The next morning Tabor left the church, quickening his stride to catch up with Sharai, who was striding toward the village. The post-dawn air was crisp; dew gleamed in the grass, and the sky shone blue, free of clouds. All signs of a banner day.
A perfect day to clear the air between them. She’d been frosty with him since they left Winchester. He’d find a way to make peace with her.
Her tightly braided hair, still damp from washing, fell almost to her waist. Instead of her Gypsy skirt she wore a high-necked houppelande and black cloak. His mother must have given her more appropriate clothes.
“Good morn, Sharai.” He braced himself for her dark look and dismissal. “’Twas a pleasant surprise to see you at Lauds.”
She stopped walking and cast him a dark look. “Oh? Surprised that I could rise so early, or surprised that I attended?”
“I’ve heard that Gypsies . . .”
He hesitated to detail what he knew, that Gypsies were heathens, dipping into the world of magic with palm readings and spells.
“. . . are pagans,” she finished for him. “Things are not always as they seem, Lord Tabor. Like knights. I’ve always heard they’re chivalrous. Kindly.”
He straightened. “I subscribe to the codes of knightly honor.”
She stopped, regarding him with raised eyebrows. “And you demonstrate it by buying women, against their will?”
He studied his thumbnail. “I spoke those words in anger, in response to your insults. I bought your services, not you. Please forgive me.”
He waited for her acceptance and apology. After all, she had condemned him as irresponsible.
She continued walking in silence.
&n
bsp; “Your anger is puzzling, Sharai. Is it not obvious I did you a favor? Tell me you do not enjoy your respite here, far from the count’s threats and the humiliation of the stage.”
Her eyes grew wide. “Respite? Your mother’s list of gowns grows by the day. She’s invited friends to see my work and they arrive in just two days.”
“You’re being paid well.”
“Thank you, though since I was rudely excluded from negotiations on my own contract, I had no say in the matter. And what of the stage? The mere word furrows your brow. So you wish to take me off the stage, too? The stage is nothing. I use my dancing to earn a living. ’Tis more honest than your gambling. Should I save you from your gambling, then, as you saved me from the stage?”
There was a fire in her eyes, a glow of injury. Still, her argument pulled him in. “You compare your dancing—enticing men to look at you—to my gambling? What you were doing was sinful. Women should not reveal their legs, nor move like that in the presence of strange men.”
They reached the opened drawbridge and she pulled away. “’Tis unseemly to continue this conversation,” she whispered, nodding to the sentries and several people walking the bridge to the castle.
He lowered his voice and guided her over the drawbridge to the fishponds “You’ve engaged me in debate and I’ll not let you escape so easily. ’Tis daylight. Let us take a walk, in plain view, and explore this topic.”
She smiled unconvincingly, as if she had just stepped on a bug with new shoes. “I attract men to my stage with music and colorful costumes. I work hard with my performance. I give what they need and take what I need. A fair exchange.”
“Hedonism. You dare compare that to my gaming?”
She laughed. “So self-righteous. Can you not see that you risk the wealth your people here earned for you,” she said, gesturing to the farmers and villagers at the gate. “And what of knighthood, and service to your king in times of war? Don’t you see the similarities? Men are given physical strength, women, physical beauty. When you use your God-given assets for profit, ’tis a manly, honorable thing. Yet when women use their God-given assets for profit, it’s unacceptable and you condemn it.”
