Emerald Silk

by Janet Lane

  Teraf, an impetuous Gypsy tribal king of surpassing charm, proposes she choose her Romani legacy. She accepts, and Teraf announces their betrothal at the horse fair. Kadriya stands at his side, basking in the warmth of her realized dream.

  The dream becomes a nightmare, though, when Teraf is accused of stealing an emerald chalice and a fierce knight, John Wynter, delivers her fiance to the gallows. Sir John hates foreigners, especially Gypsies, but it is this man alone who holds the key to Kadriya’s freedom. His bigotry blinds him, though, and if this humble knight cannot improve his vision, he may fail in his duty. This adventure is as tantalizing as the arousing love story within, for in a single bell’s toll, their lives and happiness rest on finding the power of love—and one elusive chalice.

  Chapter One

  England’s Applewood Horse Fair, September, 1448

  Kadriya paused on the hill above the gentle valley where swarthy-skinned men groomed horses and children squealed with delight in a game of tag. Their bare feet skimmed the earth, their cheeks flushed with the breezy freedom of innocence. Watching them run, Kadriya’s own feet yearned for escape from the tight English shoes and the confining life they represented. Soon she would feel the rich, earthy grass between her toes. She savored the aroma of fried apples and campfires, and the prospect of returning to a life without barriers, under the stars. The thought stirred the Roma side of her heart. It was here she belonged.

  She hoped.

  Shifting on her horse she spread her arms, palms to the sky, and inhaled the crisp September air. The sun had finally broken through and tall willows weeped at the banks of the meandering Parrott River, sprinkling leaves of gold on the surrounding valley floor.

  Below, her Spanish-bred stallions nuzzled and nickered in their corral amid scores of other horses offered by competing Somerset breeders. Her patron, Richard, Baron of Tabor, was away fighting in France, and she was handling the sale on her own. She would do Tabor proud and return with a fat purse. Then she would begin her new life.

  Maud pulled alongside her, reining her horse to a stop. She filled her saddle, a tall, stout woman with copper hair, ample breasts and a heart just as impressively large. Maud’s gown rode up her thigh, revealing a collection of knives big enough to slay a dragon. Her eyes twinkled with good humor. “You look happy as a fox in a warren.”

  “I am.” Kadriya smoothed her skirt, a light yellow wool, and adjusted her own dagger. “Today Teraf announces our intention to break the tile together.” Teraf, handsome, bright, and fiery leader of the Roma, was offering her marriage and a home. With him, and with her mother’s people.

  Maud’s blue eyes reflected a soft sadness. “Sharai will miss you.”

  Sharai. The woman who, as a young child herself, had raised Kadriya after her mother died. “I wish she could be with us.” A fresh ache grew in Kadriya’s chest, as of a delicate web being wrenched from its mooring, forever breaking connections. Sharai was everything to her—mother, sister, friend. The prospect of life without her… Kadriya adjusted her scarf. wishing the airy linen weave of lavender, pink and yellow could shield her from that aspect of her future.

  “I can no longer abide the whispers, Maud.” Twenty, unwed, her mixed blood alienating all prospects among the nobility. “I must make my own way. With Teraf.” She would finally be wed. At last she had found her place.

  John Wynter peered through the sunset’s gloom, separating the bushes to keep the heathens in his sight. Their campfire leapt higher, illuminating the frenzied swine as they danced at the river’s edge, oblivious of the mud dripping from their feet. They had left the civilized section of the horse fair, where good Englishmen congregated, and scurried to their own camp some hundred yards distant, a camp with several small fires and a community blaze where they all gathered. Two dozen tents, the larger ones flying colors of red and yellow. Gypsy flags. Devil’s music leapt from their strange instruments, and they danced as if plagued with St. Vitus’ disease, the women swaying their hips in an unholy bid for attention from all who watched.

  John rolled his cross between his fingers, tracing the dent on the right crossbar, damaged during battle when it saved his life. The smooth surface of the gold reminded him of his faith, of his friendship with and duty to the abbot.

  It had been two long, miserable days of riding from the monastery in a torrent of rain that had stopped just today. All because of the Gypsy thief, Teraf. He had stolen a priceless chalice from the abbey, a chalice with a history involving the most prominent bishop in England, a history that would cause his abbot embarrassment and loss of funding if it wasn’t found, and soon.

  These foreigners looked to Teraf as their king and he held a court almost as colorful as himself, a swaggering peacock, wild-eyed, hair bound in a yellow scarf and flowing past his shoulders like an ink-stained curse.

  Roger, one of the five knights who rode with John to seize the thieves, joined him. “Still no sign of the other one, Erol.”

  “The abbot wants both, but by the saints, I’ll not let this one get away. Erol must not be here, and their ceremony is over. The Gypsy king has won his prize hen.” John watched the beautiful Gypsy tart who stood so proudly at Teraf’s side. He had treated her like an ornament all the day, while she eagerly welcomed any shred of attention he gave her.

  He could not help but notice her large almond eyes with lively, expressive brows—none of that infernal plucking that the woman at court practiced—none of the outrageous ells of linen that cloaked the noblewomen’s heads and necks like a hornet’s nest. Her hand swept to her breast just then, a woman’s enticement, but the gesture betrayed the hesitance of a girl. Her generous mouth curved with a delightful smile as if to conceal it, but she was a maiden.

  She had tied her light scarf high, hugging her forehead and temples like a crown. It flowed down her back, fluttering from her movements, touching her neck, her shoulders. Her steps, sure and effortless, stirred her skirt as it flowed over the matted grasses. In spite of her excessive obeisance to the thief, she seemed to possess her own spirit.

  With a toss of her head her exposed hair swung back. Garish hoops of gold hung from her ears and her clothes shifted, shamefully loose at her shoulders.

  Never had he seen a more captivating woman.

  Leather sandals held her small feet and strapped up her ankles and higher, peeking out when her skirt rolled softly from her movements.

  An arrow of lust pierced him. How high, he wondered, did the leather lacings climb?

  Cease. He pulled his gaze from her, and chipped a scale of mud off his armor with his thumb. He was here to serve his abbot. She was nothing more than one of them.

  Foreigners.

  In moments she would learn her peacock was just a pigeon, and a black one, at that.

  John turned to Roger. “Are their ponies hobbled?”

  “Aye.”

  “Good. Now we strike.”

  Teraf offered Kadriya a broad, white-toothed smile. His cream-colored cotehardie hugged his chest, and he moved with unfailing certainty, flamboyant and charming. The fine fabric was mud-stained and smelled deeply of male and horse sweat, though judging by his gaiety, it didn’t matter. Who else would dare to wear such a light hue when riding horses in muddied fields? His raven hair spilled past his shoulders, reminding her of an unbroken stallion, his untamed eyes flashing with challenge and natural charm.

  Of all the tribal kings in Marseilles, Teraf was the youngest, just two and twenty. Though impetuous and sharp-tongued, he was respected among the tribe. She admired his intelligence and self-assurance—in spite of his limited command of English, he negotiated fiercely, relentless until he extracted the most coin possible for his tribe’s horses. He accepted her, as if she were a rare jewel, as if she were true-blooded rather than the worrisome, mixed-blood woman she really was.

  Teraf nuzzled her. “When I’m through with you, my queen, you’ll spit in the eye of any nobleman you meet.” He hugged her with an enthusiasm that stole air from her
chest.

  She coughed and pulled away from him. His laughter had grown steadily louder since their announcement, his normally gentle touch now more bold, more controlling. Up to this point her day had been serene, like a pleasant float on the river. Then, after their betrothal announcement, she had been stung by the narrow-eyed assessment from the young tribal women who had vied for and failed to gain Teraf’s attention. Teraf had seemed to change before her eyes and that peaceful river had become a tossing ride on a restless sea, with no sight of land with which to regain her bearings.

  But she did not feel unwanted. If anything, he seemed ravenous. Likely the mead was pickling his brain, and come sunrise he would be groaning.

  “I’ll purge that dusty English blood from your veins.” He kissed her, his lips not tender, but hard and purposeful. “And fill you with pure Roma fire.” His dark eyes flashed in the large campfire, and he swung her, too forcefully, in a circle. He lost his balance and they fell together in the mud.

  It soaked through her tunic to her spine. Kadriya gasped from the shock and pulled away from him. “Let me go, Teraf. You have drunk more than you should.”

  “Do not whine, woman.”

  A horse whinnied. The musicians stopped. Startled gasps sounded from throughout the camp, and Kadriya scrambled to her feet.

  Three mounted knights rushed in on grand destriers. From the riverbank two other knights rushed in, swords drawn, their horses’ hooves plopping through the wet earth then sucking free in the sudden silence.

  The tribal dogs sprang from their begging positions near the fire, fangs bared. Several Roma surrounded Teraf, daggers flashing.

  The knights urged their mounts forward, one bumping Kadriya.

  “Fie! Rein your steed,” she said in reprimand.

  The knight rammed her again, spitting on her skirt. His gaze settled on her chest and he reached for her.

  She spun away and returned to Teraf’s side. Her mouth went dry. Since childhood she had been accustomed to Lord Tabor’s protection, traveling with knights and escorts. But here, limited by law to carrying only daggers for protection, Teraf and his men were at the mercy of these heavily armed knights.

  They loomed over them now, swords drawn. “Stand back,” the older one said.

  She turned to Teraf.

  The moment grew large, each man frozen, weighing his next move as the dogs rumbled menacing growls.

  Dots of sweat glistened on Teraf’s upper lip, betraying his fear and offering no reassurance. He signaled to the dogs. “Ho. Lie down.” He turned to his men. “Do as they say.”

  A sixth knight lunged out of the darkness, yanking Teraf’s daggers from his belt. “You’ll come with us, thief.”

  Teraf’s stout, muscular build offered no match for the burly, sword-wielding knight. “You make big error,” he said in broken English. “I am Teraf. King.” He gestured to include all the Gypsies. “Pope give papers of protection. Grant free travel. We--.”

  “Papers.” The largest knight spat the word like bad meat. “Bring them with you then.” He wore armor but no helm. A gold cross stretched across his wide neck, held by a leather lanyard, its right crossbar bent at an odd angle. His dark blond hair lay flattened against his skull. The stubble of several days’ growth shadowed his face, gaunt with high cheekbones, his blue eyes cold as a fireless night. “I am here on authority of the church,” he said, “and we know who you are. A foreigner. A heathen. A thief.” His hand played over the hilt of his sword, his breath heavy, as if he were struggling to resist the urge to run Teraf in at any moment. “You availed yourself of work and coin at the abbey, and you repaid that kindness by stealing an altar chalice. A special altar chalice. You will bring it to me now.”

  Teraf struggled to free himself. “You are fool.” He looked toward Kadriya. “These are all lies,” he swore in Romani. “I have been to no abbey, but here. With my tribe.” His yellow scarf had been loosened in the scuffle, releasing his long hair. It fell, obscuring his eyes so she couldn’t read them for truth.

  Kadriya’s heart pounded in her ears. He was looking to her, but the church’s authority was sacrosanct.

  “Kadriya?” Teraf stared at her, waiting for—what? Her confirmation that he had been here? But she had just arrived from Coin Forest. She didn’t know, couldn’t bear witness.

  But she must respond. He’s your betrothed. He’s too smart, too dedicated to his people, to steal treasures from an abbey. He must be innocent. Teraf needed her to support him. “It’s a mistake. He is no thief,” she said as much for her own reassurance as for the knight’s. Of course he’s not. You would have seen signs of it.

  The large knight straightened, looking much like a metal tree, wide and hard, the firelight reflecting on his armored chest. Impossibly, his eyes grew colder. “There is a reliable witness to his crime. An Englishman. A man of God.” He drove the words home, grinding them out. “I am Sir John Wynter, here on orders of Father Robert, Abbot of the Cerne Monastery, to return you forthwith for hanging.”

  “No!” Kadriya cried. Hatred burned, hot in the knight’s eyes, scorching her senses. It was frighteningly clear that he had no intention of learning the truth. She sensed then that Teraf must be innocent.

  She approached the tall knight and lifted her chin to meet his eyes, slit with disdain. “He has no such chalice. Who is his accuser?”

  The knight shifted in his saddle. “So you know a smattering of English, do you, heathen? Well done, but it will not save your thieving man.” He tipped his head in the direction of a small wagon and signaled the other knights. “Tie him up.”

  Kadriya hurried to the wagon and approached a knight with several missing teeth, hoping he would have more compassion and wits about him. “Your abbot. Tell him Lord Tabor will speak for Teraf.”

  The knight dragged Teraf to his horse. “A nobleman would speak for this swine?” He laughed and bound Teraf’s hands behind his back and tied him like livestock to the saddle.

  Kadriya grabbed his arm. “Release him.”

  The toothless knight spun around and struck Kadriya, knocking her to the ground.

  She landed on her hip in the mud. His horse pranced, nervous. She scrambled to avoid the horse’s hooves.

  Sir John Wynter spurred his horse between Kadriya and the knight. “Sir Phillip. Strike no woman or child. We are here for the men and the chalice. We have Teraf. Now find the chalice, and Erol, and we’ll take our leave.” He scanned the tents, his gaze resting on the largest one, Teraf’s, a fine ash bender-tent dressed with red and yellow flags.

  He rode to it, dismounted and bent to enter the round, slow-slung shelter. He emerged moments later, grim-faced. “Erol must have it, but check the rest of the tents, just in case.”

  Two other knights pushed their way into the smaller tents, popping the wooden skewers that held the oiled linen taut over the support rods.

  “Stop. Leave us. We don’t have your chalice.” Kadriya blocked one of the tents from their assault.

  Kadriya’s Romani friend, Bit, grabbed Kadriya’s arms. “Get back. They’ll kill you!”

  The knights emerged from the last tent empty-handed.

  Kadriya released the breath she’d been holding. See, you knew it. There is no chalice. Teraf is innocent.

  The knights cursed then, kicking the tent poles from the ground, and mounted their horses. They left, following the road bordering the barley fields.

  Sobered and wide-eyed, Teraf ordered the dogs to stay and held out his free hand. “My brothers! I am innocent,” he said in Romani. “Meet us at Blackwater Point and free me.”

  From the look on his face, the hateful knight John Wynter did not understand their language. He glared at Teraf and led his horse to the back of the procession. Glaring with drawn sword, he warned, “Follow us and we will kill you. You would do well to take your strange tongue and evil ways and get you back to Egypt, or whencesoever you came.” He slanted a look of loathing at Kadriya. “All of you.”

  Kadriya w
atched, paralyzed as the knights and an anxious, tethered Teraf disappeared into the darkness, following the river to their left.

  Children, thrown from the tents for the search, stood crying in the night air, their small feet lost in the mud. Women clutched their babes, worry etched on their faces, and the men huddled among themselves, arguing over who was in charge now that Teraf had been taken.

  Rill, wiry overseer of the dancers, signaled to his two large, light-skinned gorgio guards, and other men joined them, disappearing into Teraf’s tent.

  They emerged a moment later, securing their daggers. Murat, a handsome man with white hair and a greying mustache, was second in command after Teraf. He glared at Kadriya from under long, white brows. “We’ll attack the knights and free Teraf. Stay out of our way, woman.”

  Kadriya faced his gaze, raising her chin. She would not let him dismiss her. She must help free Teraf. “I am not just a woman. I have been trained to fight since I was a child.” Exaggerated a jot, but Sharai had taught Kadriya how to take down men twice her size, and she knew well how to use a dagger. “I have fought men bigger than you, and I am your future queen.” She elbowed her way in front of him. “What are you planning?”

  “To free Teraf at Blackwater Point.”

  Kadriya walked quickly, following them to the horses. Over her wildly beating heart, she tried to reason with them, as Sharai always did in times of emergency. “A dozen Roma with daggers against six armored knights? Mayhaps you will cast a spell then, to avoid slaughter?”

  His eyes flashed and he took a threatening step toward her.

  She did not flinch or break her stride. “you will be cut down like wheat before the scythe.”

  Rill pushed past Murat. “What would you have us do, Kadriya?”