Crimson Secret

  Book Four in the Coin Forest Series

  Crimson Secret

  by Janet Lane

  Cover art Copyright by Jalena Penaligon

  All rights reserved.

  Dreaming Tree Publishing, LLC

  Littleton, Colorado, USA

  Crimson Secret

  Copyright 2016 Janet Lane

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced in any form or by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereinafter invented, including photocopying, or in any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

  Published by Dreaming Tree Publishing

  P. O. Box 1070, Littleton, CO 80160-1070, USA

  ISBN 978-1-945508-00-4

  First Edition

  Printed in the United States of America

  Available on smashwords.com and other retail outlets

  Available in eBook and paperback formats

  Table of Contents

  Map

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  For Book Club Readers

  About the Author

  Other Books by Janet Lane

  Author’s Note

  DEDICATION

  This is dedicated to my critique group, Kay Bergstrom, Denee Cody, Carla Gertner, Thea Hutcheson, Alice Kober, Steven Moores, Pam Nowak, Robin Owens, Cate Rowan, Peggy Waide and Jessie Wulf. They are gifted writers and amazing friends. We have shared our dreams, our words, our novels, and our literary lives. I am eternally grateful for their generous support over the years of my writing journey.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thanks to Margaret Bailey, Kay Bergstrom, Denee Cody, Pam Nowak and Peggy Waide for their keen insights and observations. Thanks to my husband, John, for his patience and support. Thanks to Sherry Carey for her fresh eyes and encouragement. Thanks also to Dawn and Andrea for their deep love of books and their in-depth reviews of my novels.

  Thanks to Jan Gerstenberger for her support, and for the treats from the Kashgar Bazaar. They were, after all, inspirational.

  Master bridge builder Lord Penry is a known traitor, committed to destroying Joya’s beloved Queen Margaret so the Duke of York can rule. Like her family, Joya is deeply devoted to keeping King Henry VI on the throne. They’re both right, both wrong, both lost in the heat of unbridled passion and growing uncertainties. It’s a dance of imperiled love amid the War of the Roses, and time is running out to reveal their true loyalties.

  Advance Praise for Crimson Secret

  “…political intrigue with a hard-won romance along for the ride. Recommended by fans of star-crossed lovers”. … Library Journal Review

  “Historical characters come to life in a freshly imagined setting filled with intrigue and passion—loved it!” … USA Today Bestselling Author, Cassie Miles

  MAP

  Crimson Secret

  Prologue

  A herring seagull swooped into Luke’s face, an assault of wings and sharp claws. Luke swatted it and his rope ladder teetered thirty feet above the water. Luke grabbed the rung and tightened his hold, the stiff twining cutting his flesh. His grip failed and the rope snaked from his hands. Panic crippled him and his foot slipped. He wobbled like a stricken duck, right leg flailing.

  “Hold still. Grab my hand.” From above on the bridge, his cousin Degory reached for him. “You’re all right. Step up to the next rung. Slowly. A little to the left and … there. You have it.”

  In all his ten summers Luke had never experienced such fear. He felt his trousers moisten and he avoided his cousin’s eyes.

  Deg laughed. “Don’t worry. If you fall, so what? That’s what we’re here for. If you do, don’t dive. Go in feet first and swim to the left like I told you. I’m going to let go now. Ready?”

  Luke took a deep breath and let go of Deg’s hand. What could be so hard about swinging from a bridge? Certes, it was a high bridge, higher, grander and longer than any Luke had seen back home in Somerset. Its graceful arches reached high, as if made for angels, as splendid as Wells Cathedral with its fine stonework spanning the length of at least four tilting fields.

  He hoped Deg hadn’t noticed his trousers.

  His cousin, three years older, swung over the bridge and descended onto the other ladder, nimble as a mummer. They stepped down their ladders and sat down on the last rung.

  Deg started swinging, pumping his legs, leaning back until his arms were straight and his swing formed an aggressive arch.

  A quick look up showed that the rope was still securely attached to the bridge. A cool thrill of courage shot up Luke’s spine, and he ventured a gentle pumping of his legs. Far below, the river churned and Luke grew light-headed.

  “Look up!” Deg said. “Get used to it first before you look down.”

  Luke swung, higher, watching the clouds and the bridge swing in and out of his vision. His uncle’s home sat snugly at the end of the bridge, and the shops seemed to sprout like mushrooms on the deck of the bridge. “I’m doing it,” he shouted. “This is fine!” His toes tickled at the bottom of the swing’s arc and his heart soared at the top, the shivering, light sensation as wondrous as sunshine after days of rain.

  Up and down, up and down, defying the seagulls that still swooped toward them, protecting their chicks. They gave up and flew back to the roofs and crannies under the bridge where they nested.

  Too soon, Deg called to him.

  How long had they been swinging? A moment, an inch of the candle, a bell’s time?

  “Time to jump,” his cousin said.

  New courage emboldened him. “Ready!”

  Deg rose to standing. “It’s simple. Don’t jump until after you reach the top of your swing and have started to drop. Go feet first. Use your arms to stay upright. Don’t let the current take you past the fisherman’s docks. Got it?”

  Luke blinked in the flurry of instructions. “Got it.”

  Deg nodded. “Do what I do.”

  At the highest point of his swing, Deg stepped off the swing and into the air, arms circling to keep his balance.

  Luke tried to imagine what it must feel like to fall that far down in the air. Breathing became harder.

  A splash. Deg’s black head bobbed to the surface, and he swam to the dock. “Come on!”

  “Hey, Turtle!” A harsh, raspy voice boomed from above the bridge. Luke turned, and the air chilled. His brothers. They weren’t supposed to arrive from Somerset until later this eve.

  A familiar blanket of dread fell over him, worse than the seagull’s wings, one that always buried Luke when in his brothers’ company.

  Philip grabbed the top of Luke’s ladder and tugged on it, making it keel to the side. “What’s the worry, Turtle?” he taunted.

  “Scared to jump, Turtle?” Christopher asked.

  The nickname pierced his skull. He would not answer them, would not feed their appetite at shaming him.

  “Here, let me help you.” Christopher pulled his dagger and started a sawing motion on the rope that held Luke�
��s ladder.

  Luke yelled. “No!” Fear surged, but he struck it down. He would not let them see his fear, ever again, after the barrel. Gritting his teeth, he kicked his legs forcefully, swinging high, and jumped.

  Luke plummeted down, the rushing air whistling in his ears. His body tilted to the right and he landed crooked in the water. The river slapped him, a massive blow to his body that took his breath and rattled his neck.

  He cut through the water like a cannon, the water pushing his tunic up over his head.

  Finally he stopped sinking, and an image came to him of a watery grave and hungry fish.

  Up, must keep reaching up. Luke clawed to the light above, lungs burning. He broke through the surface, gasping, and struggled to the shore.

  “Bad landing,” Deg said from the dock. “You all right?”

  Luke’s skin was on fire and his neck hurt, but he admired Deg and didn’t want him to think, as his brothers did, that he was afeared or worse, weak.. “Yeah.”

  “So was it not fine as I told you?”

  Luke rubbed his neck. “Aye.”

  “Let’s do it again.”

  Up at the bridge, his uncle had joined his brothers. Luke could imagine Christopher’s smile, his mouth curved in cruelty. After what they had done to him with the pickle barrel, they could not be trusted. “Later. After they leave.”

  Chapter 1

  21 years later

  Somerset, May, 1460

  Joya Ellington, second daughter of Lord and Lady Tabor, waved her hawking glove and bumped the bed where her friends slept. "Come, ladies. It’s May Day.”

  Her friend, Camilla, stirred. “Not for two days.”

  “Aye, but you won’t make me hunt alone, will you?”

  From Joya’s bed Camilla groaned, her blue nightcap flattened from sleep like a storm-tossed tent. “The sun's not even up. Be gone.” She pulled the covers over her head and her crooked cap disappeared.

  Beside her, Prudence sat up, her slender shoulders sagging. She held her head, her expression pained from yester eve's wine. “Off to the forest with a dozen men? You’ll hardly be alone.”

  Joya turned to her table and pushed aside the heap of hair combs, rings and pins to gain access to the water bowl. Sifting through the scattered garments she found a cloth, moistened it in cool water and pressed it to Prude's forehead. “This will help. And don’t make it sound so improper. I’ll be with my father and my priest.” She looked forward to hunting with her father, Lord Tabor. She would receive his warm gaze of approval when she captured a pigeon or two for the festival table.

  “Your father, priest, and ten other men,” Prudence said.

  Camilla's blue nightcap reappeared. She tossed the covers aside and propped herself on one elbow, regarding Joya with a raised brow. “Dawn has not yet broken, but look at her.”

  Prudence straightened and turned to Joya. “She's a vision.” She touched Joya's coronet. “Not one hair astray, and her gown,” she said, touching it. “The finest wool, yellow as the sun.”

  A teasing smile broke out on both their faces.

  Joya rolled her eyes. Now would come the chants. She withdrew and plugged her ears. “I can't hear you.”

  “Oh, yes you can,” Camilla said. “Her gown, so bright.” Camilla started the sequence.

  “A sheer delight,” Prudence spoke the words in a familiar sing-song pattern.

  “So small, a sprite,” Camilla said.

  Prudence tapped her chin, thinking. “Um—a bird, so light.”

  “Eyes dark as night,” Camilla said.

  “A lovely sight!” They framed their grinning faces with their hands.

  “Stop you now.” This ritual of theirs left Joya walking a narrow course. Their affection showed in their eyes, but small needles of disapproval winked below the surface of their words. “I am but lucky that my mother is such a good seamstress.” She whopped them with her feather pillow. “There is no crime in looking nice.”

  “Good,” Camilla said. “By cause if there were, the reeve would be shackling you.”

  Joya steered the conversation from herself. “So Cam, you're wide awake now. Come join the hunt. Think of the men. This could lead to your wedding day.”

  “The men don't look past you,” Cam said.

  “I am not interested.” Joya clutched Giles' betrothal ring, suspended on a chain around her neck. Her fiancé had died months before at Blore Heath, at the hands of the malicious, usurping Yorkists. She would never love again. “Ah, but you should be. George will be there.” George, the young Lord Minton. Camilla had been casting sheep's eyes at him.

  “Even he isn't worth getting up in the dark for.” Cam snuggled back under the covers. Joya grabbed for Camilla's leg and missed. “Hmm, I could strap your ankles to a horse and haul you out.”

  “Don't try me.” Camilla bundled her legs beneath her and growled. “I have teeth. Good teeth. Now be gone. Anon.”

  Prudence swept an assessing gaze over Joya's gown. “And change that gown before you go out in all that mud.”

  Joya smoothed her hand over her skirt, full and flowing to allow free movement on her horse, the sleeves snug so she could efficiently handle her goshawk. She opened her mirror to check her coronet, bright with woven flowers and a yellow scarf. One can never be too pretty.

  Prudence held her head. “Enjoy yourself.” Prudence laughed, a soft undercurrent of affection lilting her voice and warming her eyes. “What am I saying? You always do.”

  Joya planted a quick kiss on her cheek. “Thank you, Prude. Remember the games later at parish. Be there on time.” She reached across and rocked Camilla’s hip. “And you, Sleepy. I'll tell George you said good morn.”

  Camilla swatted her hand away.

  Outside, Joya hurried through the bailey in the pre-dawn grey, heading for the mews. Father Jeffrye and her father waited with his knights by the drawbridge. Her brother's hound, Seven, sat between them, panting, ready for the hunt.

  Sir Peter, short in the saddle and long in the tooth, turned an eye on her. “Late. So like a woman.” His words taunted but his eyes lingered in admiration.

  Joya raised a brow. “Early. So like a man.” She waited for the men's laughter to die down and smiled at Peter. “We shall see if you can hawk like a woman.”

  “Or if you can hawk like a man,” Peter answered.

  “Do not bait her, Peter. At hawking, she will win,” her father said, regarding her with affection.

  “For me, she has already won.” Peter’s voice held suggestive undertones that drew more laughter.

  Joya shot him a warning look. She enjoyed the hunt, had always been comfortable with the knights and their teasing, but she would not tread on the path to romance. Ever again.

  She quickened her walk. This would be a good day. She and Diana, her prize merlin, would impress her father and provide food for the May Day feast.

  She hurried to the mews, still feeling Peter's gaze on her. He had position, good humor and the wisdom of years, but he was not Giles. She still ached for her fiancé, felled by the maggot-brained Yorkists.

  Giles would have turned twenty-two this month. She took a fortifying breath and ducked to enter the mews. Inside the squat hut her merlin, Diana, pranced on her caged perch. She danced from side to side in excitement, a splendid bird with her white head, gold-ringed nose, and proud bronze and black-feathered chest.

  From outside came the sounds of a trumpet and horses. Several men greeted her father. Diana's head jerked toward the rumpus. Joya positioned the hawk on her leather sleeve, hooded her and hurried outside.

  A contingent of five men under King Henry's standard lingered on horseback before her father and his knights. “Spread the word,” their leader said. They left, passing over the drawbridge.

  Joya approached her father. “What word?”

  “York. Word from Calais is that he and Warwick are returning.”

  “Again?” York and Warwick had escaped to Calais, and Warwick had returned after C
hristmas and stolen several ships from the king at Sandwich. Queen Margaret had effectively exiled them in Ireland. It all meant more war, more deaths. An old, familiar fear echoed from the past and Joya swallowed hard, fighting the nausea that rose from the mention of Yorkists. We should have killed them all at Ludford.

  “Traitors,” Peter said.

  “They don’t dare travel this far inland, damn their souls. If they do they'll rue the day they stepped on my land,” her father said.

  “They've been condemned.” Her words sounded weak even to her own ears. Being attainted by Parliament hadn't stopped their five-year campaign to unseat King Henry.

  “We're to be watchful on the highways, especially to the north,” her father said.

  The threat of war made the sky seem darker. Joya's skin crawled and she yearned to slap the Yorkists for the hateful bugs they were and feed them to the river snakes. She lifted her chin. A pox on them. Bastards, all. She posed a serene smile. She would not let them spoil the day. “Let’s provision our tables for May Day.”

  Joya handed Diana to the cadger. He added her to the six other hawks on the cadge and shifted it securely on his hips. Subdued, the hunting party headed for the woods.

  By mid-day, the morning chill and dampness had burned off and Coin Forest was fresh with spring. The streams ran clear and tiny white flowers winked on tall stems within the high grasses. Pine needles carpeted the forest floor, releasing their fragrant resins as the horses crushed them on the trail.

  Peter and the other men had taken their saker falcons west in search of grouse. Joya and her father had chosen to hunt at their favorite clearing a few miles away. They walked with their horses while Seven sniffed, looking for the opportunity to flush some game. Diana perched on Joya's protected arm, the goshawk on her father’s arm.