Emerald Silk Page 22

  Tabor would lose everything.

  Or she would leave.

  She could not bear the thought of either. A sense of defeat overwhelmed her.

  Finally sleep took her, and Sharai tumbled in the darkness of her dream and landed, walking uncertainly, on high, precarious stilts, soaring above the earth, so exciting, then moving into a field of mud that made the stilts sink all the way to her feet, plunging deeper to her waist, and shoulders, and her chin. The cold engulfed her face, and she was trapped in the grime and drowning in a swamp of suspicious eyes and whispers.

  * * * * *

  Tabor reined his horse to a stop and gestured to Cyrill. Ahead, the city of Bath nestled in the lush, gentle hills. The spires of St. James and the looming Cathedral of St. Peter rose and disappeared in the mists, giving the city a dream-like illusion to match its ancient past.

  Next to him Cyrill shuddered and frowned, creasing the collection of wrinkles that framed his eyes. “What did I tell you? Soggy and dismal again.” He sniffed, grimacing.

  “More mysterious than dismal.” Though Tabor would hope for clarity soon, with Gloucester.

  Cyrill pushed his elbows backward, stretching. “My back aches, and this moisture makes it worse.”

  “You whine like an old woman, Cyrill. The fog is from the hot springs. You do covet the healing baths, do you not?”

  A smile tugged at the knight’s features, softening his face, and his grey mustache rose as he smiled. “Aye, that will be welcome.”

  They crossed the majestic arches of the Southgate Bridge, the River Avon below reflecting the grey of the skies.

  Weaving through the traffic on Stall Street, they neared the abbey, and Tabor fought a growing sense of disquiet. This was the largest gamble of his life, for if he lost, it would not be a purse or pride. It would be Coin Forest and the woman he loved.

  Sharai. Her name drifted down from the soaring cathedral towers lost in the haze. He would hold her in his arms in bed and feel the soft curves of her body, see the light of love in her eyes, and he would wonder at the beauty of it, that she had really come to him, that this overpowering gift was real, that it was happening to him. He wanted to spend the rest of his life with her.

  But she was a peasant. Suspect, by his own mother’s charges, of sorcery. His gut tightened. What if he failed her? What if he angered Gloucester and ruined his chances to save Coin Forest? His stomach knotted with apprehension. He would be broken to lose Coin Forest, but he could not live without Sharai. Once he made the commitment, he could not turn back.

  He slipped her prayer beads from his travel bag, rolling the silky spheres in his hand. Warm and smooth, they brought him comfort and made him feel closer to her. Though outnumbered, outfinanced, and outmaneuvered, he would fight.

  Cyrill leaned forward in the saddle, peering into Tabor’s hand. “What do you have there?”

  “Tools of persuasion, I hope.” He poured the prayer beads in his purse and dismounted. “Wait you here with the horses, Cyrill. I’ll leave word for Gloucester, and then we’ll see the cellarer for food and lodging.”

  Tabor walked the well-worn path to the Bishop’s Palace.

  A stranger bumped into Tabor just outside the gate, a merchant, judging by the fur on his sleeves.

  Tabor placed his hand on the stranger’s shoulder, stabilizing both of them. “I beg your pardon.”

  The merchant gave him a curious stare. “My fault. Forgive me.” He took slow, uncertain steps away, walking toward Cyrill.

  Tabor raised his hand, thinking to ask the man if he knew him, then thought likely he did not, and gave his name and title to the gatekeeper.

  * * * * *

  Count Aydin and his knights had traveled to a marshy area beyond Hungerford where their horses’ hooves pocked noisily in and out of the muck with each step.

  A distant shlupping sound came from behind a stand of trees, warning of other riders.

  Aydin pulled his sword.

  A rider appeared from behind, and others behind him. They closed in on Aydin’s men.

  The three-quarter moon cast light on the rider, and Aydin lowered his sword to acknowledge him. “Rauf.”

  Rauf peered closer. “The Gypsy from the fair?” He grimaced, as if to say that Aydin wasn’t good enough to be traveling through his land.

  Aydin bristled. “I am Count Aydin.”

  Rauf laughed, a rude, ill-humored bark. “A count from Little Egypt, I know, your land of dreams. What are you doing here?”

  Aydin’s gut tightened, his hand itching to strike the insolent young dullard, but the fact that Rauf didn’t know the nature of Aydin’s trip struck Aydin as most curious. He absorbed this significant information. This explained the weak candlelight in the church. Rauf knew naught of his father’s plans. This pleased Aydin and eased some of the anger he felt at being laughed at. He searched the shadows, trying to count Rauf’s men. They outnumbered Aydin’s six, but he could not be sure by how much. Aydin raised his chin in challenge. “I visited your father, and we now pass peacefully on to Owlsbury.” He named a village to the east of Coin Forest.

  “Whyfore did you visit Lord Hungerford?”

  “Horses,” Aydin said, volunteering no more.

  Rauf rubbed the dark stubble on his chin. “Have you seen the Gypsy woman, Sharai?”

  Sharai, the woman who refused his love, his wedding offers. The woman who bedded the wealthy noble for his coin. She, who swore she wouldn’t be bought like a horse at auction; he wanted to shove her lofty words down her throat. She, giving herself for wealth like a common whore when she knew Aydin waited for her. Only her.

  Aydin swallowed his fury and saw new opportunity. He could tempt Rauf into conscripting Aydin to do the same chore Rauf’s father had hired him to do. Double the bounty for the same woman. The count cursed his luck that he was surrounded with Hungerford’s hired men and couldn’t pursue this potentially lucrative situation.

  He shook his head in response to Rauf’s question. “Nay. I will see Sharai in two sennights, when we leave England.”

  “What of my father and horses?”

  “He asked me to look for some at the Stourbridge fair.”

  “That’s all?”

  “What else could it be? I’m only a Gypsy.” If Rauf hadn’t annoyed him so much, he might have laughed. He earned much, using that phrase, “only a Gypsy.” Foolish Englishmen’s vanity.

  “Now, if you will excuse us, the night is late, and—”

  “It is. Why do you travel so late?”

  “I am Gypsy. I travel as well by the light of the moon as the light of the sun.”

  Rauf hesitated, looking with question at the knights who rode with Aydin. After a moment’s hesitation, he nodded. “Good eve, Count Aydin.” He uttered the title with disrespect. “And Godspeed.”

  * * * * *

  Tabor arrived at Gloucester’s quarters at the abbey’s manor, a sprawling building made of brownstone quarried from old Roman buildings. He passed the guards at the door and followed the steward inside.

  In the solar, the Duchess Eleanor sat near the fire to the left, warding off the chill of the gloomy afternoon. Her green eyes were alert, her features small but sharply formed. Her plucked hair made her forehead fashionably high, and she wore a lace-covered headdress and a purple brocade gown tucked snugly under her breasts. Sharai would have looked better in it, he thought, but Eleanor wore it well. She was embroidering.

  Tabor bowed to her. “Your Grace.”

  An easy smile pulled at her full lips.

  Gloucester sat near the large window to the right, at a table with several books. He wore a cotehardie of stark simplicity, made of simple brown lawn, and one might think England’s Councillor was modest, but the collar revealed his vanity and the pleasure he took in his royalty: it stood stiff with pearls and star garnets, and, on each collar tip, a small, exquisitely embroidered red rose.

  Curiosity made Tabor wonder what types of books Gloucester read, but he kept his mind
on his goal. He must gain Gloucester’s concern and understanding. He bowed formally to the handsome prince. “Your Grace.”

  “Lord Tabor. You’re looking considerably more presentable than when I saw you last. The shave and your clothing, they suit you.”

  Remembering his humiliation in Hungerford, Tabor’s face heated. “Thank you, sir.”

  “I did not expect to see you for a sennight. Why have you come?”

  “I apologize for arriving without notice. I brought my armorial chart so you may see the Ellingham lineage, and—”

  “I set that issue for council in London.” His right eyebrow slanted down, signaling annoyance.

  Tabor must convince Gloucester of the likely bias of the royal council without casting any shadow on Gloucester, himself. He selected his words with care. “I fear manipulations. Those who would wish to discredit me have political position to do so. I come to you now in hopes to avoid that.”

  “You think me incapable of hearing facts and judging them?” The eyebrow slanted more.

  “Certainly not,” Tabor said, rushing now. “But I cannot be so sure of the rest of the council.”

  Gloucester shut the book he held and leaned forward. “You suspect the council of being incapable of a fair decision?” His voice held a sharpening edge.

  Under his doublet, a trickle of sweat made its way down Tabor’s armpit. “There is a Hungerford among them. And an earl whose daughter I refused to wed.”

  Gloucester threw his head back and laughed.

  Tabor decided against laughing with him and waited for a sign to retreat or continue.

  Eleanor glanced up at Gloucester from her embroidering. She gave him a knowing smile, winked at Tabor and returned to her work.

  “You do have a way of sabotaging yourself.” He crooked a finger to a servant who stood by the stairwell. “Bring Lord Tabor wine,” he said, “and for me as well.” He gestured to a chair in front of the table. “Sit. Tell me more.”

  Tabor exhaled. He took his seat, patting the parchment container at his side. “I have brought my letters patent, my family’s armorial history dating back ten generations. It was prepared from the heraldic register in London by my priest, Father Bernard.”

  “So you wish for me to refuse Hungerford’s claim.”

  “I wish for you to honor King Henry’s grant so Coin Forest remains with my family.”

  Gloucester tabled his wine and gestured. “Show me your chart.”

  Tabor rolled the parchment out on the table.

  Gloucester studied it, tapping his finger on the tabletop. “There are claims of servitude.”

  “The date they mention is March 1270. Physically impossible. Alaric Ellingham died in January of that year,” Tabor pointed out.

  Gloucester studied the chart. “This looks more than adequate. How could council refute this?”

  Tabor thought of the recent defeats Gloucester had suffered. This man knew the dangers, but to protect his pride, Tabor would not refer to them but in the most oblique way. “Politics have been known to rule over fact.”

  Almost imperceptibly, Gloucester nodded. “That does occur, some of times.”

  “You’re known to be a fair man, and, as Chief Councillor, only you have the power to decide this.”

  Gloucester’s smile revealed skeptical amusement. “Without council.”

  Tabor’s nerves tensed. He did not want Gloucester to think he was flattering him. Gloucester may be royalty, but what Tabor had come to say was man to man. Tabor looked at him directly, with neither fear nor subservience. “I know your voting record. I know that you champion knowledge and fairness. That is why I’m here.”

  Gloucester raised his brows and gave a more relaxed smile. “Go on.”

  Tabor’s hopes grew. Gloucester faced intense political pressure from his powerful uncle, Cardinal Beaufort, and lines of loyalty had been drawn in both council and Parliament. Mayhaps it would mean something to Gloucester to know that some people appreciated him for his strengths.

  “I’ll be forever grateful if you help me with this, sir. The people of Coin Forest and Fritham will be beholden, as well.” The last was a not-so-subtle promise that Gloucester could count on future support from Tabor in Parliament.

  Gloucester reviewed the armorial chart again, then rolled it up and returned it to its case. He signaled his attendant. “Send my scribe.”

  Tabor waited in the uncomfortable silence. His future hung on this man’s decision. What if Gloucester chose against him? It became difficult to breathe. He sent a prayer to his patron saint Monica and to the Virgin Mary. He thought of Sharai and her frog bones, and the small wish candles. His legs screamed to stand, so he could pace off the pressure, but he could only sit and think about his future and how this man held it all in his hands.

  The scribe entered. “Yes, Your Grace?”

  “Issue a writ.”

  The scribe took a chair. He gripped the wooden stopper with his long fingers and pulled it from the ink bottle, a smooth movement that reflected experience. He filled his pen and opened his book, looking expectantly to Gloucester.

  “Be it recorded that after review by me this day, the Ellingham claim to Coin Forest remains valid.” He gestured for the scribe to stop.

  Gloucester turned to the scribe. “Verify the year of the grant. And note for the record that the Ellingham heirs have passed the test of unfreedom. The alleged servile duty has been proven impossible, in that the claimed incident of servility occurred two months after Alaric Ellingham’s death.—which, curiously, is the same malady that seems to have afflicted my staff.” Gloucester shifted and hoisted his empty goblet, giving a meaningful glance at the servant who stood nearby.

  The servant jumped at Gloucester’s allusion and rushed forward to fill his goblet.

  Tabor exhaled, his heart lighter by pounds. He thought of his father and his brother who had died defending Coin Forest. The weight of years of frustration lifted from his shoulders, and relief brought a stinging sensation behind his eyes.

  “Here.” Gloucester handed the scribe the Ellingham patents and dismissed him.

  Tabor grew light-headed with relief. Coin Forest, his home, the soil of his birthplace, the land of his family would remain with them. The sword and rings banner of their lineage would continue to fly, and his people would finally be safe from the Hungerfords. He, Richard, Baron Tabor, had accomplished this. Feelings assailed him and he struggled to keep his voice firm. ““Thank you, Your Grace. My family is indebted to you for your patience and fairness.”

  “You have proper claim.” Business done, Gloucester rose and walked to a food cart, selecting a meat pastry. “Let us finish our wine, and you can tell me why Lady Emilyne is so vile a creature that you cannot bear to wed her.”

  Tabor pulled himself from his reverie. Another vital issue remained to be resolved. So Marmyl had told Gloucester about the canceled marriage contract. Marmyl would have campaigned for judgment against Tabor. Had Sharai not pressed him . . . Tabor shuddered at the thought of how close he had come to disaster.

  Gloucester stopped his pastry in midair. “Well?”

  “Lady Emilyne is a lovely young woman, capable and hale.”

  The duchess paused with her stitches and listened.

  Tabor had not thought of having a woman’s ear when he met with Gloucester. Eleanor came from a family of no great standing and had married into royalty. Mayhaps his story would strike a chord with her. With this, he desperately needed an ally.

  “And Emilyne comes from a powerful family,” Gloucester said. “What is your objection to her?”

  “I have come to love a woman. Very deeply.” Tabor glanced at the duke’s books. He would use words to convince the duke that his love for Sharai was a noble thing, and marrying Emilyne in the face of that, would be ignoble.

  He gestured to the stack of books. “Your library is renowned, as is your patronage of literature. Have you read A Knight’s Tale, by Geoffrey Chaucer? ‘Love is a greater law
than any other,’” Tabor quoted.

  Gloucester settled in a seat by the fire and rested his chin on his fist. “You fancy romances, do you? Then you’ll recall that Chaucer says later in that same work: ‘We often desire what brings our own destruction.’”

  Undaunted, Tabor continued with his thread of thought. “And your good friend, King James of Scotland, wrote The Kingis Quair, about the love of one man for one special woman.” While in England the Scottish king met and fell in love with Joan Beaufort, who became his queen.

  Eleanor raised a brow. “So you believe in love.”

  “It has changed me.”

  The duchess’s smile so lighted her face that Tabor’s breath caught. ’Twas clear why Gloucester had fallen in love with her.

  She set her fabric and hoop aside.

  Tabor took the plunge. “The woman I love is a foreigner.”

  Gloucester crossed his arms. “From where?”

  Might as well spill the most damning facts early, Tabor thought. “She’s Egyptian.”

  “From Egypt?”

  “Little Egypt, though what difference that is I know not.”

  “Oh. One of those. An infidel.”

  “Nay. She’s a baptized Christian.” Tabor presented the silk beads. “I have here the prayer beads she made. She’s a talented seamstress.”

  The Duchess raised her palm. “May I see them?”

  Gloucester gave them to her, and she turned the beads over in her hands, studying the invisible seams Sharai had painstakingly stitched.

  “Her name is Sharai. The priest at St. Giles taught her letters. My priest at Coin Forest has continued her education, and she is bright and worshipful.” Tabor paused. “Lady Emilyne developed a strong dislike for Sharai, and insisted Sharai leave. Much as it pained me to embarrass Lady Emilyne and disappoint Lord Marmyl, for whom I hold great respect, I could not honor her request.”

  Gloucester leaned back in his chair. “So you seek a wife who will accept your mistress, this Egyptian, Sharai?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You must wed. I shall make a suitable match, a woman with tolerance.”