By Design (14 page)

“I'll not be standing in a Cathedral bidding over a woman. I take ale at that tavern over there at dawn. Bring these cups of yours before I leave the city, and we'll see what's what.”

She promised to meet him, and picked her way through the crowd. A heady excitement enlivened her step. What
luck that she had chanced upon two potters looking for workers today. In a fortnight she would be gone from this city. Considering what had happened at that supper with Rhys, that wouldn't be soon enough, but it would have to do.

She aimed out of the market, making plans. She would leave before Rhys woke, and bring only the best of her cups. If she baked tomorrow's bread tonight, there would be food for him in the morning, and by the time he could question her about her absence, everything would have been settled.

Boots fell into step beside her. A familiar presence warmed her side. Startled, she looked over to find Rhys smiling down at her.

“You are far from home, Joan.”

“The fowl in the neighborhood market were skinny. I decided to visit this one. And I may be far from home, but you are farther from Westminster.”

He relieved her of the basket's burden. “I often come back to the city after dinner. The other masons use the time to sleep, but I do not need it. I am going to a scribe's shop to buy some parchment. Why not come with me? It is an interesting place.”

Since he would carry the basket, she went along. A scribe's shop would be a nice diversion.

It was several lanes off the market street, tucked among other shops that looked very fine. She peered in their windows as she passed. A goldsmith's and a furrier's. Rich fabrics could be seen beyond a mercer's shutters, and she recognized a golden brown head among them. David, Mark's new friend, saw her and hailed a greeting.

“My master lived in this area, so most of these craftsmen are old friends. This scribe passes on some of his parchment. It saves me the trouble of finding it elsewhere,
since I do not need much,” Rhys explained as he led the way in.

His friend looked to be a very successful scribe. Most worked at tables in the Cathedral, not in a shop. This one even had an apprentice.

She peered at the scrolls and sheets and the book that the apprentice illuminated with colored inks. Rhys purchased two sheets of creamy parchment. She watched a lot of coin change hands.

Outside the shop he set down the basket and carefully folded the sheets.

“It is very expensive,” she said.

“Aye. My one indulgence. Other men buy jewelled knives or rich furnishings. I buy the stuff of dreams.”

“That is when you aren't wasting your silver on unwilling women.”

He smiled. “I told you, Joan. You are the stuff of dreams, too.” He tucked one of the sheets into the basket. “That one is for you. I will give you a quill and some ink. I expect that you miss your craft.”

“It will be a sinful waste. Quills and ink and drawings are not the stuff of my craft.”
Or my dreams
.

“It is all design. It is all a manifestation of the same craft. If you make mistakes, you can scrape them off. I will show you how.”

He strolled back down the lane, and paused at the goldsmith's shop. “Now that I think about it, what we really want is in here.”

“Gold? Oh, aye, that is truly the stuff of dreams.”

He crooked his finger and beckoned her to follow him inside.

The only gold visible was a miniature saint being worked by the master at the back of the shop. A small vise held it while he filed along its delicate lines. He welcomed
them and continued his labor, but he kept glancing up at her and breaking into boyish smiles at her attention.

“It is hollow,” Rhys said. “It has no back and will be attached to something—a reliquary, I would guess.”

The goldsmith nodded. “Aye, a reliquary for the Blackfriars.”

“To make it hollow, and less wasteful of the gold, he makes a core of clay. Then the saint is molded in wax, then covered with plaster,” Rhys explained. “He heats it all, the wax melts, and the molten gold is poured into the cavity. When it cools and hardens, he breaks away the plaster, lifts it off the clay, and he has his little saint. All precious metals are done that way. It is how church bells are cast.”

“Then I must finish it, which is what I am doing now,” the goldsmith said. “Perhaps someday you will make a bronze statue, Rhys. The Queen is rich enough for it.”

“Even she is not that extravagant. And I do not mold, I carve.” He gestured to Joan. “But my friend here works clay. Perhaps you have some extra that you will sell us.”

She looked at him in surprise, and then at the goldsmith with unabashed hope.

The goldsmith set down his file and debated it. “I don't have much, and there's other figures to do.” He glanced at her and broke into one of his smiles. She smiled back and he flushed. “Oh, aye, I guess I could sell a bit.”

She watched in wonder as some more coins appeared. Rhys took the small clump and dropped it in the basket. It wasn't much, but it would make a statue.

Or two cups. Newly worked undried cups that she could bring to the potters tomorrow, to prove that the skill was truly her own.

“I had better carry this back to the house for you,” Rhys said. “The clay makes it very heavy.”

That was very kind of him. He often was kind. Except when he was buying her indenture. Or threatening to
seduce her. Maybe he was being especially nice today to make amends for the other night.

He brought the basket into the kitchen, then left through the hall. She grabbed the clay and carried it out to the table beneath the tree. She sat and peered at the lump, poking it with her fingers. It would be nice to make a statue. She had imagined several the last few weeks that wanted to be formed. Since she could not fire the clay, she could make one, then reuse the clay and make another, over and over.

Nay, it would be best to form the cups. Not so much fun, but more useful at the moment.

Her contemplations utterly absorbed her, and so the nearby steps startled her.

Rhys had not left after all. He set a quill and ink pot on the table.

She looked at them, and at the clay. She thought about the parchment still tucked in the basket. It had been very pleasant today, visiting the shops and walking and chatting.

She pressed the pliable mass and her fingers sank in. It felt so good. “Thank you for this. For helping me find it. I will pay you what it cost.”

“It is a gift. I could not bear being cut off from my craft. I am sure it is the same with you.”

Her heart warmed at his thoughtfulness, but she did not want him giving her gifts. She would find some way to repay him, even if he never knew.

Maybe she would begin a statue at least, and then later in the day reform it into cups.

“Joan, Master James and Master Neil will not be waiting to meet with you. Both men have decided that they do not need a pretty worker after all.”

His quiet words penetrated her euphoria. She stared up in shock. “You saw? You followed me? You spoke with them after—”

He suddenly looked less kindly. “It is well that I did. Not every man who works clay is as pliable as George. If they agreed to meet with you to discuss such a thing, it was not your skill at your craft that they sought to buy.”

“It would be once they saw my craft.”

“Your skill is high, but theirs is higher.”

“Exactly. I could have learned from either of them. I might have had the chance to master the wheel, or to learn to use slips. You had no right to interfere!”

The glint flashed in his eyes. His face turned stony and severe.

All at once she understood. Anger shot through her. “You did not do this to protect me. You did this because you have decided that you will not let me leave.” She lifted the clay, and threw it back down. “You sought to appease me with this.”

He did not respond, but his hard expression answered plainly enough.

“What did you say to them? With what words did you undo what I had carefully begun?”

“I said that you belong to me.” It came out simply and firmly.

Fury pounded in her head. She felt her jaw clench. “Nay, mason. I belong to
me
, and never forget it.”

His eyes burned. He lifted her off the bench. His expression made her heart jump. “Aye, you belong to yourself only, Joan, and I never forget it.” He pulled her into his arms. “I never forget anything. I never forget this. Nor do you.” His mouth claimed hers in a forceful, demanding kiss.

It was her breathless confusion that permitted the deep kiss, not her free will. He had caught her unaware, that was all. She frantically told herself that as he plunged her into a chaotic whirl. The strained attraction yanked her in, rendering her helpless.

Biting kisses. Their anger made it heated and contentious, a fevered series of challenges and triumphs and defeats, with the latter entirely hers.

When his mastery was complete, when he had proven to her the power of the desire, he took her face in his hand and looked in her eyes. “Aye, we neither of us forget. I can be in my chamber, and you in the kitchen, and it is there.” His expression was far too knowing. Still severe, still angry. “So tell me, Joan, about how you belong to you alone, and how I have no rights or claims. But first tell me why this frightens you so much that you would risk your safety to escape it.”

Anger flooded her again. Anger at herself, for ever permitting that first kiss under this tree. Resentment of the weakness that had led her to seek sanctuary in a man, any man, let alone one who wanted her in this way. A man about whom she could trust only one thing for certain. That he desired her.

The anger was mostly with herself, but there was some for him, too. For the way he kept cornering her, and asking her to face something that she did not want to look at.

Something dreadful and numbing and hidden. Something shriveled and invisible, but not dead.

She grabbed the anger and threw it at him with reasons she could speak of. “You act like you protected me with this interference, but it is not that, mason, anymore than it was when you took me from the tile yard. Since you have failed, since I will not be your leman, just let me leave.”

“You want to make this base, but you know it is not. If I sought a bedmate I could have taken the coin I gave George and bought whores for years.”

“Then buy them.” She pushed away, hard. He let her loose. Good that he did, for she was ready to pummel him if he held tight. “Buy them, Rhys, because this will never be.”

“It already is. And we both know it.”

“Nay, it is not. Nor will it ever be. Never. Nor will I be in your home much longer. I want to earn coin with my craft, not just mold for my amusement. I will find a place where I can. When I do, I will be gone, and all the pleasure in the world will not stop me.” She strode toward the kitchen, desperate to end this.

“I think that you fear that it
will
stop you.”

“Stand aside and see if it does.” She snapped the challenge over her shoulder. “You know
nothing
about me. Who I am and what I fear have nothing to do with you.”

She went to the tavern and the Cathedral the next day, but neither of her potters was waiting for her. Whatever words Rhys had used, they had been effective. Probably his size and strength had spoken eloquently enough.

She tried to ignore the clay he had given her, but it beckoned like a siren. By marketing time she had destroyed the cups made in a rebellious fury the day before, and begun one of the saints that she had already molded in her mind's eye.

Mark accompanied her to the market, none too pleased to do so. Rhys was clever, she had to give him that. He had given Mark an additional chore. He had commanded her brother to carry her market basket so she would be free of the burden. Of course Mark refused to wander the whole city doing such woman's work, visiting shops and visiting craftsmen. By saddling her with her brother, Rhys chained her to the neighborhood market.

They returned with provisions earlier than normal. They entered through the garden portal and brought the food to the kitchen. Mark headed to the hall.

He was going up for the bow. He used it every day while Rhys was gone, and she had ceased arguing about it. He
was restless despite his work in the stable and garden. Aiming at the butt for an hour usually pulled him out of his surliness.

She did not hear him on the stairs, however. Instead he returned to the kitchen.

“No fun today,” he muttered. “He came back early. He is up above. I heard him walking about. Best plan on more than bread and cheese for dinner.”

Actually, she had planned on little else. Now she would have to go marketing again. She strode into the hall, intending to say a few pointed words about giving her some warning if he expected to take his midday meal at the house.

She heard the footsteps at once. She froze, and listened intently to their weight. Her nape prickled.

Not Rhys. She knew his steps very well. Too well. When he was here the pulse of her blood matched their rhythm, and when he was absent they echoed in the emptiness.

She slipped back to the kitchen. “It is someone else, I am sure,” she whispered.

Mark's eyes lit with excitement. “I will go see. No point in having us about if he gets robbed while we sit in the garden.”

“You are not going up there unarmed.”

“I've my two arms and fists.”

“I am coming with you.”

He began to object, but she let him know with her eyes not to bother. Gesturing her to stay behind him, he eased through the hall.

The steps above paced to the far end, where the little workroom was.

She tiptoed up the stairs behind Mark.

The intruder must have been occupied in the workroom, because no one was waiting to jump them in the
solar. Mark slid over to the chest that held the weapons. He lifted its lid and pulled out the bow and an arrow. While he fitted the shaft to the string, she grabbed the dagger.

Muffled sounds, like a rat rustling through debris, came from the workroom. Mark quietly walked to the threshold of the little room, raised his weapon, and barged in.