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  In the companionable silence Tabor drank mead from his flask and passed it to her. She took a drink, stoppered the flask and positioned the strap over her shoulder.

  Seven's tail straightened. He lunged toward a thick bush.

  Three coneys burst from the cover, long ears flat, running in hell-bent haste in all directions.

  “Ho! Ho!” Her father shouted to his goshawk. He unhooded and released the bird, mounted his horse and followed Seven and the hawk.

  The sounds disturbed a bush full of flickers and they fluttered from their cover. “Het! Het!” Joya cried out and freed Diana from her hood and released her. Wings spreading almost a yard wide, she took to the air in a soft jingle of her bells.

  Joya mounted Goldie and they followed Diana, ducking the low branches and thick brush. Their movement flushed a family of hares and more pigeons. Mud flew from her horse's hooves, splashing the hem of Joya's gown. No matter. Must stay with Diana. She could already imagine the look on her father's face when she returned with some plump birds.

  She reached another clearing and a large pond, thick with lily pads. At the water’s edge Diana pranced, mantling her prey. Joya dismounted, tethered Goldie to the low branch of a sprawling oak and approached her bird. “Good girl,” Joya praised, trying to peer through Diana's wings to see what she had caught.

  Behind her, Goldie huffed and pranced, trying to break free. “It's all right, girl,” Joya soothed.

  Diana continued to cover her prize, protecting it. Joya spoke softly and approached her, respectful of her sharp beak and claws. With a swift movement she hooded the bird, lifting her away to reveal the bird's prize: a fat vole. “Oh, Diana,” Joya said, keeping the disappointment from her voice. “Very nice, my lady. Very nice.” Joya opened her hawking bag, unhooded Diane and gave her a treat. The vole would not do for their May Day table, but she bagged it any way. The stable cats would be pleased.

  Behind her Goldie still paced, skittish. “There now, girl,” she said, approaching her horse. “What's vexing you?”

  Her palfry strained her reins, eyes widened.

  Joya lowered her gaze to the horse's legs. Behind them the muddy shoreline was churned by the hooves of many horses, the deep imprints filled with water. Unseen earlier in her rush to tend to Diana, blood glistened in the pools.

  Fear tingled her neck and the ground beneath her shifted. She was alone. How distant was her father?

  She met the white-framed eyes of her frightened horse and followed her gaze to the left. Visible by a wild rosebush at the base of the giant oak was a bloodied arm.

  The pool of blood beneath the body was as large as a soldier’s shield, and his face—early twenties, she guessed—had taken on a grey tinge. His armor had been stolen, all but his greaves. The man had expired.

  Her neck tingled again. What if there are more? One step back, then another. She retreated, reached for Goldie. On her arm, Diana crouched to spring.

  I haven’t tethered her. She reached for the bird.

  Goldie gave another sharp tug on her reins and the branch broke. The horse bumped into Joya, knocking her off balance. She fell in the mud, arms outstretched to break her fall.

  Diana fell off her arm and rolled. When her hood fell off, she flew to a high branch.

  “Diana!”

  But the hawk was hunting again and flew off, bells jingling.

  Joya crooned to her horse. Calmly mounting her, she reined her to follow the hawk. Something caught her eye again, an object near a group of diseased trees. A pair of boots and legs by a fallen tree.

  Stay, or go? My hawk. But what if this one’s alive? She would check. If he still breathed, she would assure him she’d return, get Diana and find her father. She pulled her dagger. If he tries to harm me, I’ll defend myself and escape.

  She swallowed the stone in her throat and approached.

  There were no signs of blood on this man. He was a few years older than the other man, fine lines settling around his eyes. His powerful brow line suggested much contemplation or deep study, and clearly by his clothes he was a nobleman. New mustache and beard growth shadowed his face. Hair the color of sand, nice jawline, thin face, high-set ears that brought attention to a fine, sensitive mouth. No helm or breastplate. No blood. She kept her distance, dagger drawn, poised in front of her chest. “Who are you?” As soon as the words passed her lips, her heart jumped to a dizzying beat. Why waken a sleeping bear? Where’s Father? She stepped back a safer distance. Hands shaking, she pulled her hunting horn from her belt and blew hard. Her father would hear her and come.

  The injured man hadn’t reacted to her. She tried to walk away, but decency held her. She approached, caution tensing her muscles, dagger still drawn as she knelt beside his head. “Don’t move,” she warned, “Or I’ll kill you.” She placed her hand beneath his nostrils.

  Moist air blew rhythmically against her skin.

  His face was thin, and beautiful. Like a soft breeze his breath awakened sensations that had long been sleeping, and she was acutely aware of his masculinity, his power. She should leave him, but she could not. She tapped his forehead and received no response. Slapped his face, nothing. Finally she rolled his head back and forth. “Wake up!”

  He stirred and groaned, holding his head. His eyes opened, blue, compelling. A thrill not unlike that of falling jolted through her core.

  “Here, drink this.” Her voice shook slightly as she offered him her father’s berry mead, but he waved it away, rolled over and threw up.

  “Who are you?” At his misery she softened her voice. “What happened?”

  “Highway men,” he said. His voice was heavy, shockingly deep and masculine. It stirred something inside her, something pleasant. His beard reflected a few days’ growth, not yet shameful. Inexplicably, she wondered what that new growth should feel like under her fingertips. While worry lines creased his light skin between those icy blue eyes, his mouth lacked any lines that suggested he ever smiled.

  She thought to look around again. “How many of you are there?”

  He coughed, avoiding her eyes.

  Apprehension stiffened her back. “How many?”

  “Only the two of us.” He hesitated. “Is he alive?”

  “Tell me your name. Now.”

  “Bonwyk. Lord Penry.”

  She had heard the name at court. “Baron?”

  “Aye.”

  “Somerset?”

  He avoided her eyes again. He struggled to stand, shaky on his feet.

  She pulled back, brandishing her dagger. “I'm sorry. Your friend is dead.”

  His brows knit together and his eyes closed for a moment. He opened them, put his hand out, palm toward her. “I will not hurt you.” He took a step, and his knees buckled. He fell back on the ground, fainted.

  He may be dying from unseen injuries. She lowered her dagger and lifted his collar to see any evidence of his coat of arms. A pin—she turned it and jerked her hand free, the badge too hot to be touched. It was a rose, a white rose.

  White rose, symbol of Richard Plantagenet, Third Duke of York, the miscreant who sought to steal the crown from King Henry. White rose, symbol of greed and murder, the force behind the battle of Blore Heath, where Giles and two thousand others died defending their king.

  A wave of nausea assaulted her. Bloody nails. Her softness for him, her concern for his injuries fled like morning smoke, and fury churned her stomach. Swine. A Yorkist.

  She rose quickly. Let him die.

  In the distance a horn sounded, two short, three long notes. Her father. She released a shaking breath. Her father was coming back and he would deal with this traitor.

  A flurry of movement surprised Joya.

  Lord Penry jumped to life. He batted the dagger out of her hand, gripped her shoulders, covered her mouth. She screamed into his hand.

  “Quiet,” he barked. “You will come with me. Be silent.” His blue eyes had darkened, his jaw pulsed with determination, and he poked an exotic dagger in
to the soft skin under her chin. He blocked her right arm with his body, lean, muscular as it pressed her against an old oak. “Understand?”

  Stupid girl. She chided herself for her distractions with him. Here, alone in the forest. Stupid, stupid. The weapon and his menacing presence paralyzed her. She could not reach her own dagger, lying useless on the ground. The wind stopped swirling through the pines. The birds ceased singing and she could not breathe.

  The swine Penry, who had appeared close to death moments before, now loomed over her, vibrant, strong, commanding. He reached to retrieve her fallen dagger and fumbled at her gown, finding her purse. With a quick motion he used her dagger to cut the purse cord and bound her hands with it. She looked down at her hands and her fear took wings to heights greater than her hawk had ever seen.

  “Let me go!” Joya's heart hammered in her chest. Hurry, Father, hurry!

  “When I'm safely away I'll release you.” He grabbed Goldie’s reins and slung Joya onto her horse. “Where's your saddle?”

  The question stirred her Roma blood and she glared at him. “I don't need one when I hunt.”

  He looked to the heavens and back at her. His hair tumbled onto his forehead and he cast a determined gaze at her. “Then we shall ride without one. Don’t do anything foolish.” He swooped onto Goldie, leading her away from the clearing and into a dense thicket of trees.

  Joya struggled in the prison of his arms. He had tied her hands tightly, and the cord cut into her wrists as she gripped Goldie's mane for balance. “You're hurting my horse. We're too heavy for her.”

  “You can't weigh seven stones, wet. She'll be fine,” he said, his voice curt, indignant. He guided Goldie through the dense undergrowth, weaving slightly for balance, clearly not accustomed to riding without a saddle.

  “You'll be gutted when my father catches you. He's an Ellingham, you know. Lord Tabor.”

  Penry grunted. “The one who wed the Gypsy. That explains your lack of saddle. And your skin.”

  “You won’t have any skin left when he’s through with you.” Self-conscious, she shifted her weight. Her skin bore evidence of her mother's heritage, but also of her father’s. “I have Spanish blood.”

  “M-hmm,” he said, smugness deepening his words. They neared a series of fallen trees. “Hold on.”

  Goldie picked her way around fallen trees that cluttered the trail. They cleared a large, long-dead tree that sprawled across the forest floor, overgrown with moss and mushrooms. The mushroom tree. A familiar area that held mysteries and stories her father and her friend Kadriya had told her. She noted the sun’s position, hoping desperately to keep some reference point so she could later find her way back. If she could escape. Goldie pounded over the trail, taking them farther and farther away.

  “My father heard my signal. He’ll catch up with you,” she said.

  He did not respond, and she heard no hoof beats of pursuit, only the swish of branches as they snagged her gown, the fine wool by now in tatters and drenched in mud. The ribbons of her coronet fluttered in her eyes, stinging them, mocking her morning efforts at beauty. She rued her crippling stupidity. One can never be too pretty, Joya. Especially when you’re an imbecile who allows yourself to be abducted by a maggot-brained Yorkist. Yorkists, known to murder on a fancy.

  At her parish Joya had heard the knights speaking of the Yorkist cruelty after the Blore Heath battle, how they chased the king's soldiers who fled the battlefield when defeat was certain. One mob carried their blood thirst into the tiny abbey of Inton, snatching the hapless nuns from their beds, raping them, stripping the abbey of their wine and fish, and running three nuns through when they tried to save their sacred bowls and chalices. And now she was at the mercy of one of them.

  A bell's time later, they had covered much ground and still Joya heard only silence behind them. Somehow Lord Penry had managed to elude the entire Coin Forest hunting party, and they had emerged from the forest into an area of hills and meadows dotted with the occasional herd of ewes or cows. The open ground brought fresh hope that she would be seen by someone and rescued.

  But Penry was armed and clever, avoiding roads and settlements.

  They approached a wide river and he slowed Goldie, paying special attention to steep river banks.

  Floating logs littered the river's waves and churning water suggested depth and a dangerous current. On the other side of the river, a thick growth of trees crowded the bank and a chill whiffed down her spine. If they entered there, she would never be seen or heard of again. She shuddered. “Don’t try to ford here,” Joya said.

  “I don’t need your help,” Penry said. “I know every route between here and London. We’ll cross there.” He pointed to a distant bridge.

  As they drew nearer to the bridge, its details became clear. Joya studied it with hope, scanning the bridge for a hermit shack. Hermits often occupied bridges, collecting tolls. Mayhap he was a young, strapping hermit who would note her distress.

  The bridge was sad, dilapidated, with no shack and no hermit. Tears of frustration stung her eyes. Goldie clumped onto the heavy boards and the wood gave under her hooves. Two large cracks sounded as unseen wood beneath them splintered. The timber beneath them shuddered. Goldie whinnied, backing up.

  Penry reined her horse. “God’s pains,” Penry muttered. “It’s a bad deck, or worse, the piers.”

  “We can't cross.”

  Penry dismounted, climbed a support beam on the bridge and tied the reins high where she couldn't reach them. “Stay here.” His eyes speared her, hooded with warning. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

  Joya’s neck heated all the way to her ears, wishing sorely for her stolen dagger. “You've come this far. Let me go now.”

  He ignored her and tugged again on the tied reins. Satisfied, he strode to the middle of the bridge and bent down, looking for something.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Checking the piers.” He kicked the wood, testing, muttering more to himself than to her. He had probably concluded she was, indeed, stupid. “Rot, but it’s only superficial. Should be sturdy enough to bear our weight.” He walked six feet away, then several feet more, dropping on his stomach to look beneath the bridge.

  Behind them, hoof beats of several horses became audible. Joya jerked around, saw a group on horseback approaching. She couldn’t be sure because they were at least a half mile away, but that had to be her father, her priest and Peter and the rest of them. Joya exhaled a shaky breath.

  Wary, she looked to Penry. He was almost hanging off the side of the bridge. He heard the hoof beats, met her gaze.

  She bit her lip. This was her chance! If she could get off Goldie and run, it would be enough delay for her father to reach her. But her hands were tied, and it was a long jump off the horse. She wouldn’t be able to get her balance and would fall, and he could pick her up and stab her for her efforts.

  She eyed the bridge’s railing. She could slide off Goldie that way, land on her rump on the railing and it would be an easy slide down to the floor of the bridge and she could run before he knew what happened.

  She’d run toward the horsemen, screaming and dancing like St. Vitus on an anthill. They’d rush to her aid.

  In some remote part of her brain she heard a voice warning her it might not work, but what choices did she have? The forest on the other side of the river loomed. He would violate her, leave her to die. The vultures would find her, pick her bones, her face—the grisly stories haunted her.

  She thought all this in the tiniest fraction of time. Penry was rising to his feet, urgency in his eyes.

  It was more than she could bear. Swinging a leg over Goldie’s back, she took her chance, pushing hard off her horse so she could reach the wooden rail.

  Penry scrambled to his feet and bounded toward her in large strides. “What in hell?”

  She landed on the rail with a crash, pain spiking up her hip. She swung her feet between the rail cogs, trying to gain grip on the cogs and keep
her balance.

  Penry’s arms reached for her, but Goldie was between them.

  Her feet slipped off the cogs and flew into the air. Off balance. Falling. She cried out, flailed, but couldn’t grip the railing.

  Penry’s eyes darkened in anger. “God’s blood, girl. Your hands!”

  Her legs scraped against the rail and she slipped off into the air.

  His face, wide-eyed and furious, grew more distant. Joya felt the sickening sensation of falling, falling backward into the swiftly running river below.

  Chapter 2

  The lame-brained girl! Could this day grow worse? First highway thieves killed Durken and stole Luke’s best horse. Now this. He ripped at the lacings on his boots and glanced toward the advancing horsemen. They wouldn’t reach her in time to save her, and if he saved her, they’d catch him and find his plans. Damn. He wrenched his left boot free and pulled at the lacings on his right boot. Now there she was, hands bound and falling off the bridge. Her rescuers would be too late. The Parrett River was swollen, clogged with trash and whirlpools.

  He freed the second boot. She had hooked her bound hands over a log with broken branches. Smart.

  Her ells of skirts floated and she bobbed like a fat yellow duck, but now she was as good as chained to that log. Dangerous.

  “Help me!” Her cry sounded wet as the cold water took her breath.

  Her horse jerked madly on its reins. Luke cut it free and cast another glance at the approaching men.

  And back to her.

  He would be captured.

  But if you don’t, she’ll die at your hand.

  Ballocks! He held his head, splitting in pain from the attack.

  Damn, damn, damn. He stepped up on the rail, took a deep breath and jumped.

  The water sliced into him, bitterly cold. He gasped, oriented himself and swam downstream after her yellow, half submerged skirts.

  Approaching a log jam, Luke swam in place, pumping his arms and legs as hard as he could to avoid getting trapped in the treacherous tangle of deadwood. Summoning a burst of power, he pulled a log free. He swung an arm onto it and hurried after her. By now her skirts had disappeared, and her flowered headpiece had fallen over her forehead. Terror widened her eyes. He reached out to her. “Turn to me so I can free your hands!”