by Janet Lane
The count was skilled at market, too. He managed to sell Hungerford’s knight a string of pearls for seventy shillings, when the poor dolt could have bought three strings for the same price, but the clever count had told him it had once belonged to an Egyptian princess, and that the pearls possessed some strange sort of healing powers.
But the man was unhappy. Hungerford had seen Aydin following the Gypsy girl, Sharai, like a puppy, giving her sheep’s eyes. The man knew how to face danger, but knew naught about women. Aye, while at the fair the man demonstrated strong passion for women, and horses. Aydin had made such frequent visits to Hungerford’s Arabian, Shaker, that Rauf suspected he was planning to steal him.
After a time, the Count leaned his stool back to the wall and propped his feet on the rung. Hungerford organized his thoughts and launched his proposal. “Has the summer been good for you and your tribe?”
“We’re thankful for the warm welcome we receive in England,” he replied diplomatically, “and we hope to return for the fair weeks next summer. We leave soon to France.”
“I’ve heard your tribe numbers over a hundred.”
Aydin’s chest rose. “Once we return to France and rejoin the others, yes.”
“And your dancers. Will they return with you, too, or stay here?”
He blinked. “The Gorgios are from Southampton and Salisbury.”
“Gorgios?”
“Forgive me. The non-Gypsy dancers.”
“And what of the dancer named Sharai? I saw her leave with Lord Tabor, and heard that he bought her from your tribe.”
The count’s expression became dark. “He is Gorgio.” This time he said the word like a curse. “Good Gypsy girls do not go with Gorgios. He bought only her services as a seamstress. Her contract will be done soon, and she will be leaving with me.”
Hungerford replenished Aydin’s goblet. Now he would use the reports he’d received. Embellished, of course. “She will not be returning with you.”
His eyes narrowed. “What mean you?”
Hungerford positioned his hand closer to his sword, should he need it. “She is his whore now.”
The Gypsy brought his stool upright, the wood thudding onto the stone. “Nay. She is a good Gypsy girl. Unless he—”
“Forced her? She’s quite willing, I’ve heard. They embrace in broad daylight in the middle of the bailey.” He picked a piece of lint off his sleeve, letting the silence settle in. “She shares his chamber.”
Aydin’s face contorted with anger. “Lies. She did not wish to go with him. She went only because Etti committed her to do so. She—”
Hungerford held his hand up. “Forgive me. I think you need to know what’s being said about her.” By the tension in Aydin’s face, worms of suspicion were already crawling in his brain. “Tabor’s valet has separate quarters, but he is a curious boy,” Hungerford said. “He heard the sound of bells in the night and could not resist peeking into his lord’s chamber. He saw Sharai dancing for him. In his chamber.”
“But—.”
“Wearing the bells.” He paused and gave a small smile. “Naught but the bells.”
A shadow crossed Aydin’s face as the truth stung its way into his brain. “What do you want from me,” he growled.
Hungerford gestured to be quiet.
The count lowered his voice, but it still rumbled, dark with suspicion and anger. “Why have you summoned me, only to share foul rumors? And why for do we sit here in the darkness, with just one candle?”
“Tabor has wronged both of us, Count Aydin. He’s stolen your woman, and he’s stolen Coin Forest from my family. I want you to go there. Visit Sharai in the light of day, as her king. Take her from Tabor and bring her to me.”
Aydin raised a dark brow. “Why do you want Sharai?”
“Merely as a diversion. Will she come willingly with you?”
The count sat up straighter, looking every bit like a passion play puppet about to dance. “Of course.”
Good, Hungerford thought. He engaged the heathen's pride. Now to engage his greed. “I’ve hired knights from Southampton to accompany you. My men do not know them, and they wear no livery, of course, so Tabor’s men will see no connection to me. If she resists, take her by force. If you arrive peacefully, they will suspect nothing, but however you do it, you must remove her.”
“And if I do?”
“Take her to London and wait for my orders.”
“Why London?”
“These are my terms. Do it and I will give you an Arabian, a horse like Shaker, the one you rode here.” The one you could not keep your hands off in St. Giles, Hungerford thought, enjoying the moment. “This horse is from el Maestro, one of the finest bloodlines in Spain.” Hungerford stopped, letting that sink in.
The Gypsy’s eyes widened in surprise, but just for a wink. He recovered quickly, masking his excitement, but Hungerford had already seen.
“Only the king himself has a horse as fine as this.” Hungerford animated his voice, relishing the challenge of gaining this man’s services. Admittedly, the price was high, but the prize was higher. “With a horse like Shaker, you can command your price for stud at any horse fair you choose, and hundreds of pounds for every foal. You’ll be the envy of all.”
Aydin’s eyes lit. He was tribal king, and that gave him power. This equestrian gem from Spain would be a fine feather in his cap, giving him prestige, as well.
Aydin examined his fingernails in an effort to conceal his excitement, but he could not mask his quickened breathing. “And?”
Hungerford had heard about the Gypsy greed, and he was prepared. He held out his hand. “Bring me Sharai, and I will also give you this ring.” He showed the Gypsy his heirloom ring, holding it close to the flame to reveal the intricate detail and delicate violet stone. The candlelight cast a glow on the thick band of gold crosses. Rauf would be furious, but no matter, it must be done now, and this vainglorious creature was perfectly suited to the task.
The Gypsy’s eyes grew keen. “And?”
Hungerford withdrew his hand. “And you get your woman back. Unless it bothers you not that she gives her womanly charms to a Gorgio nobleman and not to you.”
His face darkened and Hungerford worried for a moment that he had pressed too far, but the Gypsy contained his emotions. “I want Shaker.”
“Shaker is my horse. I will give you his brother. He’ll be delivered to you in London.”
“And when do I get the ring?”
“The same time you get the pedigree documents on the horse. When you arrive in London with Sharai. In five days.”
* * * * *
Sharai stitched the end of the cording, tucking it invisibly into the seam of the apple-colored seat cushion. Just two more and she would be done. She lifted the next one from the table. Fading twilight filtered weakly into the solar, making it difficult to see.
Fast footsteps sounded and Kadriya appeared from below. Her blue gown was stained at the knees again, and she had weeds in her hair.
Sharai removed most of the weeds and kissed the top of her head. “And what are you so wide-eyed about, Sprig?”
“The village is filled with strange men. Stinky, dirty men. From France. Archers. One lost his eye and half his arm, and a red-haired man has blistered lips, like they were burned in a fire.”
“They’ve been at war, and now they’re looking for work.” Tabor had sent messages to Southampton and London that the harvest at Coin Forest was excellent, and help was needed. His foresight was paying off.
“And there are some men from London. The plague is back, they say, and they left before they caught it, too.”
Sharai crossed herself. “God bless them, and protect us. It does seem to strike hardest in London.”
“Foul air and water, they said. They were all talking at once; then Lady Anne came with Sir Cyrill and they called Lord Tabor out of the church, and I hid behind the tree by the well and listened. She said you were a sorcer.”
“Sorce
rer,” Sharai corrected.
“She wants you to go away. Me, too.” Her brows furrowed.
Sharai felt a pang of guilt, and put an arm around her. “Not you, Sprig. Me. Because of Lady Emilyne.”
“Lord Tabor defended you. Said he would never let you go.”
Sharai stood up, dropping her cushion. “What did Lady Anne say?”
“She said you were a heathen. She got a post from Lord Marmyl that he canceled the contract.”
Sweet Mary. She grabbed Kadriya by the shoulders. “Are you sure? What were her exact words?”
Kadriya looked to the ceiling, thinking. “‘He’s canceled the contract,’ she said. Then she called him a fool.”
Sharai released her, straightening her sleeves. “What did Tabor say then?”
“He said something about duties and he would not send you away. And then Lady Anne started crying, and she hit him in the chest and said he was ruining everything. That without Marmyl he would lose not just this castle but all his holdings.”
“She must have been exaggerating.”
“Sir Cyrill said he feared she was right.”
A vague sense of unease came upon Sharai, but she shook it off. It was just as Maud had said: this ordeal would pass.
And she and Tabor would wed.
Sharai let out a cry, scooped Kadriya up, and spun her in circles. Her fondest dreams were coming true.
* * * * *
A somber atmosphere loomed at the evening meal. Lady Anne cast Sharai dark looks and sent the minstrels away, and the lower tables hummed with quiet conversation. Sharai felt eyes on her. Growing weary of being watched, she left the table before the final course and took a walk in the bailey. She followed the inner curtain, thinking of the general gloom that had settled since news of the Marmyl contract’s demise. People were disappointed, but did they not realize they could prosper without it? The fields were heavy, and after harvest they would see they didn’t need the Marmyls, after all.
Returning to the castle, she approached Maud as she swept soiled rushes out the kitchen door.
“Did you hear the good news? About Lady Emilyne,” said Sharai.
“’Tis not good,” Maud said.
“But soon they’ll bring in the harvest, and—”
“Lord Marmyl is an earl, you know.”
“Yes. And wealthy. Britta said he owned several properties. But it did not sway Tabor from his true feelings.”
“’Tis more than money. It was foolhardy to anger the earl before the council rules on Hungerford’s claim to Coin Forest. Did you know that Marmyl sits on the high court?”
“Yes, but it was you who said Lord Tabor can take care of himself. He’ll find a way to beat Rauf at his own game.”
Maud remained silent.
Sharai looked up, refusing to let Maud evade her eyes. “Maud. Weren’t you the one who advised me to stay? You said Tabor needed me.”
“But Marmyl serves on the high court. He'll give the thumbs up on who gets Coin Forest.” Maud untied a bundle of fresh reeds. “I didn’t know of Lord Marmyl’s power. This is fearsome, Sharai.” Her eyes grew wide. “If Rauf gains hold, he’ll kill me, and anyone else who resists him. The lucky ones will be sent away with their lives, but nothing else.” She crossed herself and turned away.
Sharai waited for Maud to utter some words of encouragement, but she entered the kitchen with the fresh reeds and never returned.
The bailey fire crackled and the din of kitchen cleanup broke the silence, and Sharai wondered how everything could sound so normal when all was so confusing. It seemed that every development that boded well for her meant trouble for Tabor. How could their love be so right when all else around them seemed so amiss?
A black, short-haired dog approached, looking up at Sharai with eager eyes.
She stooped to pet it and scratch behind its ear. Tabor’s life was so much more complex than her own. A sensation of love rushed through her, and she trembled from its strength. She could not lose this man. Maud had been right before fear had taken hold. Sharai would be Tabor’s strength. She’d help him, and together they’d save Coin Forest. And they would wed and Kadriya and she would finally have a home.
A tear slipped down her cheek, and she pushed it away, willing no more to come. She must be strong.
* * * * *
Later that evening, Sharai and Tabor sat on the bench in his chamber, near the fire. The soft popping of the wood sap provided the only sound. Her thoughts haunted her this eve, and Tabor had seemed distracted, as well. Shadows that had naught to do with firelight lined his face.
His dark eyes regarded her. “What’s troubling you?”
“The same thing that disturbs you. Everyone has given up. Why? You can prove your family’s claim is valid. Father Bernard is certain, too. You don’t need Marmyl’s help.”
“Mayhaps.”
“Then what do you fear?”
“The unexpected. This is not like a battle, where a man pits his own strength against another’s. It’s not like chess, where moves and rules are predictable. I cannot fail. I have obligations. I must prove myself.”
“To whom?”
He looked at her as if she had three heads. “To my family. To my peers in Parliament, and on the battlefield, in the parish.”
“And what about yourself, Tabor?”
“In proving myself to others, I satisfy myself, as well.”
“Really? Is that why you were such a contented man when I met you?”
His dark eyes were weary. “I’ve been carrying a fool’s hope, wishing that things would somehow work out, but I can’t turn a blind eye to reality. I must retain my holdings. Without the earl, I cannot.”
She straightened the ribbon in her braid. “So Marmyl pulls his support, and you admit defeat before even trying? What about us, Tabor?”
He stood. “God’s blood, Sharai, must you be so selfish? Everyone here, every knight, every maid, each person stands to lose their home.”
“I’m no child. I understand what’s at stake. But to just give up like this makes no sense to me.” She hesitated, knowing her words would not be well received. “You’re afraid.”
He stopped his pacing. “You had your sights set from the beginning. Marry a nobleman and live in luxury. Were those not your words to me? And you proceeded with your charm and spells to capture me.”
“Well, aren’t you full as a tick? ’Twas you who followed my every step, visiting the solar, meeting me at the well every morn.”
He ignored her words. “Now you are triumphant, but you hold dust in your hands. If Coin Forest falls to the Hungerfords, you will have won nothing.”
“I was a child when you met me, Tabor. Hungry and weary of living in a storage tent. You would use the words of a child against me?”
“You must think of other people’s needs, too, Sharai, not just your own. You need to stop chasing dreams. Grow up.”
“Grow up? Are you talking to me, or yourself?” She rose and stalked to him, glaring up into his eyes. “You chased after money more eagerly than I did. You feigned interest in a woman because of her dowry, and why? To make your struggle less difficult. Then you condemn the plans I had when I was but twelve summers. I love you, Tabor, and it has nothing to do with money. Yes, I wanted it, but at twelve I didn’t know it was really security I wanted, not vast wealth. Do you know what I am, Tabor?”
“A Gypsy.”
“I am vatrasi, of the Gypsies that settle instead of travel. My home and my family were stolen from me when I was but eight, and I have never had either one since. These corturari Gypsies I travel with, when time comes to move on, they look forward to new places, adventure, change. For me it’s a sense of loss, of going in every direction at once, but never forward. Here, I go to the same church, every day, and I have found a trusted friend in Father Bernard.” She touched his hand, welcoming the warmth of his skin and the sense of connection.
“I find joy in sewing, simple things for the solar that will be
here tomorrow because the walls are sound, secure. This is the security I seek, not coin.
“And I know responsibility. Kadriya is part of my every decision. But I will never grow up, as you say, if it means I must grow old before my time and surrender my dreams and the love we share. Never.”
He exhaled audibly. “What would you have me do? Slay Gloucester and Hungerford, the whole lot of them?”
“Fie! You should neither slay them nor lie down like a wounded puppy and let them slay you. Did you not fight fiercely to regain Coin Forest when Hungerford took it five years ago? Did you not stay in the fray the years since, scheming, gambling, improving your farming and milling practices, all to save your home? You had more spirit before Marmyl waved all those pounds in front of your face.”
He turned away from her and leaned on the wall near the window. “I love you. I could not bear to send you away.”
She put her hand on his shoulder. “And I love you for it. That was the one thing you did for yourself. Now I would have you fight. Fight for us.”
* * * * *
The next morning Tabor mingled at the market, visiting with the retired archers. Bad news from France. More losses, and the Congress at Arras was failing. The French still demanded that Henry drop his claim and title as the King of France. Defeat loomed.
A man shopping the writing booth caught Tabor’s eye. Dark-haired and young, he wore a green wool doublet and his long fingers wrapped around the ink vials, shaking the ink to the top of each glass and holding each to the sun to judge its quality.
Something about the man was familiar. He moved to make room for another patron and afforded Tabor a look at his face.
“Will?”
The man turned and looked at Tabor. He cocked his head, trying to place him. “Do I know you?”
Tabor approached him. “You’re Will, the scribe from Hungerford.”
“Until recently, aye.”
“We met in unfortunate circumstances. Hungerford’s dungeon.”
Recognition lit his eyes. “You. Who would have guessed it?” he said, taking in Tabor’s clothing, then recovered. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to be rude.”
