By Design (2 page)

The blunt talk made John nervous. He stuck his head out the window to be sure no one lurked against the wall.

Rhys took the opportunity to look for the potter again. She appeared to have another buyer.

John leaned over the table with a serious expression. Rhys deliberately angled away so they would not look like two conspirators plotting treason. Which was what they were, for all intents and purposes.

“I will confide in you,” John said. “Wake is raising an army in France. Lancaster and my bishop are sending him money. By next spring—”

“It will not happen. The barons have made peace with Queen Isabella and her lover Roger Mortimer. This will not be like three years ago, when the country rose up to welcome Isabella's invasion in order to help her depose her husband and crown her son. For one thing, the current king is not the enemy. His mother and her lover are, the same leaders whom we embraced as saviors in that great rebellion.”

“They have become usurpers!”

“As some of us worried that they would. Anyone who
knows Roger Mortimer feared his ambition. The barons were supposed to control him, but they have proven weak and divided.”

“Mortimer ignores the council. He even sets himself above the young King and must be brought down.”

“Then it is King Edward's fight.”

“He is a boy—”

“He is eighteen.”

John flushed to the roots of his short, fair hair. “They have bought you. They give you the status of a master builder and let you design a few structures, and like a dog thrown some bones you forget your old loyalties.”

Rhys barely suppressed the urge to reach over and grab John's fleshy neck. “I have forgotten
nothing
. I risked more than you in that rebellion,
clerk
—only to see a bad king replaced by a bad queen and her hungry lover. Only to see the unity of the barons shatter at once as they hastened to gain from the change. If you want to know who has been bought, look to the castles of the realm.” He swallowed his anger and looked across the square again. “I grow weary of it, John. I am out of this, and seek only to practice my craft. If the Queen wants me to rebuild a manor house, I will do it.”

John began a low-voiced cajoling. Rhys did not listen. His attention had become distracted by a commotion in the marketplace.

Two groups of youths had come down two lanes at the same time. One, made up of squires in their lords' liveries, displayed the arrogant high spirits of young men who expect the world's deference. The other, a ragtag gang of footloose boys such as plagued the city, showed the surly anger that breeds in men with nothing to do.

The crowd subtly shifted to avoid both groups, but as fate would have it they crossed each other's paths in the middle of the square. Neither gang would walk around the other.

They faced off. Sharp words were exchanged, then shouted insults. Eight rich faces sneered. Seven poor ones snarled.

Rhys ignored John's exhortations and drank his ale. The crowd spread, making room for the drama. There would be a fight, to be sure. A bit of excitement to enliven the afternoon. A spectacle to discuss for the next few days.

That was what marketplaces were for.

He mentally put his money on the city youths, even though they were outnumbered. This would be a street brawl, not a tournament in armor. Besides, it was important to show loyalty to one's own in these things.

“How much?”

Joan examined the man admiring her Saint Catherine. Skinny and pale, with a rabbity face and a richly draped hat, he looked wealthy enough to buy impractical things.

She let him look longer while she contained her excitement. To think that she might sell all three statues today!

He really did seem to like it. “A shilling.”

His gaze snapped to her in surprise.

“It took a week to make, and is fired. You will find no better,” she added quickly, wishing she had not been so rash. Of course that mason had just been flattering her, hoping for something more for his coin. She would lose this sale because she had almost believed what he said about the value of her wares.

“A shilling,” the rabbit mused. “Your husband puts a high price on his skill.”

“The skill is mine.”

He instantly looked at the statue with new eyes. Critical ones. He would imagine that he saw every imperfection that he expected in work done by a woman.

That often happened. She could invent a craftsman
husband and tell the buyers lies, but her pride would not let her. The statues were
hers
.
She
had made them.

“Five pence,” he offered.

It was what she had gotten for the Virgin. She should be glad for it. But this man's sudden disdain irked her.

“A shilling. It is worth much more, and I will take no less.” She regretted the words as soon as they snapped off her lips. Still, a rebellious part of her felt that this man did not deserve her Saint Catherine and that she would break it to pieces before she let him have it for five pence.

To her surprise, he did not walk off. It astonished her even more when his fingers went to his purse. A shilling landed on her box as he turned away. If he had thrown down only five pence, she would have grabbed it just as quickly. In truth she could not afford the pride that still plagued her.

She tucked the money into her bodice, between her breasts. It joined the moist weight of the other coins there. Almost three shillings today. A fortune, thanks to that tall mason.

She remembered his keen-eyed gaze admiring her cup. And her. For once she hadn't minded that so much, despite his intimidating size. He hadn't leered. Those blue eyes had revealed a man's interest, but not the naked hunger that she knew too well.

And he had truly appreciated her craft. She could tell from the way he touched the wares. That had not been a lie, even if it might have been an excuse.

She had been a little rude to him. She wished that she could thank him now. He had been right about the statues. As a mason, he probably had some experience in how such things were valued. It had been generous of him to tell her.

A nice man. Handsome, too, with a firm jaw and angular face and a well-formed nose. He wore his clean dark
hair bound at his nape the way laborers did, to keep it off their faces. Kind eyes. Deep blue. The skin at their sides crinkled when he smiled. Little lines had formed there, and at the edges of his mouth. Maybe he smiled a lot.

She discovered that she was smiling now, too. It actually felt strange, but a lovely lightness had entered her heart, and she couldn't stop herself.

Almost three shillings. Maybe … maybe …

Some youths entered the square off a nearby side lane, and she immediately spotted her brother Mark's blond head among them. Thank goodness for that. He had disappeared after setting down her box here at dawn, and she had worried that she would have to carry it back across the river herself.

She tried to catch his eye but he managed not to notice. He stuck with his knot of comrades, looking as though he planned to cross the square and get swallowed by the city again. His friends were trouble. They all wore the hot-eyed, tough expressions of young men looking to fight with the world.

She could not ignore the fact that Mark fit right in. Realizing that blotted the sun right out of her mood. Not only anger and hardness matched him with the others. His garments did, too. Little more than rags, his tunic and hose had already been patched and frayed when she bought them off a servant. She could afford no better. Mark had grown so much these last two years that it had been all she could do to keep him in any clothes at all.

He hated that green tunic. He resented what it meant. Every morning when he dragged it on, her heart ached for him. Day by day she watched his anger grow, and felt the storm building in his soul. When they were together, his silent thunder quaked right through the air, into her.

She watched him aim across the square, and a flutter of panic beat inside her. She was losing him. To this city's
alleys, and those bad youths, and the despair wrought by poverty. At fifteen, he was no longer the boy who had trusted his big sister, and his lost faith cut like a knife. He no longer believed her reassurances that things would change for the better. Maybe he guessed that she did not believe them herself half the time.

But sometimes she still did. Like today. Her breasts cradled almost three shillings. Perhaps she could still make it right for him. Eventually.

Mark's head stopped. So did those of the other boys. The crowd began milling in abruptly different patterns. She rose on her toes to see what was happening.

Sick worry instantly twisted her stomach. Mark and his friends had confronted a group of squires. Things were fast getting ugly. The crowd oozed away from the impending brawl, forming a thick circle that quickly blocked her view.

Fear and frustration shot to her head. Hadn't she begged him to stay out of trouble? Weren't those her very last words to him this morning? Now he would get himself beaten or broken, or saints knew what!

She stomped into the crowd and pushed her way through. By the time she popped out from the front row of spectators, the fight was underway.

Clouds of dust rose around the melee of swinging fists and fumbling strangleholds. Mark was big enough to hold his own, but her quick scan saw a red bruise under his eye before a set of knuckles crashed into his jaw.

She looked desperately around the crowd. None of the men seemed inclined to stop it. In fact they were shouting encouragements and laying wagers. The two gangs had become a form of blood sport.

Something amidst the confusion caught her eye and froze her blood. One of the squires, a young man wearing Mortimer's livery, took a bad blow from Mark to his
handsome face. He crumbled to the ground and grabbed his nose with a scream of pain. For an instant he lay there in astonishment. Then flaring hatred lit his eyes. As he scrambled to his feet, his hand went to his belt. Suddenly a dagger was slicing through the air.

Everyone saw that the fun had turned deadly. The crowd quieted and the youths stopped. The squire glared at his enemies and jabbed the air to move them away. The street boys edged back, but refused to run.

Mark didn't move at all. She knew why, and groaned that fate could be so cruel as to taunt him with a challenge from one of Mortimer's servants. He stood there arrogantly, daring the squire to try it.

They faced each other in the spreading silence, and it seemed as if invisible ropes wanted to pull them together. She saw—nay, she
felt
—the exact moment when her brother's death became inevitable. Fury split in her head. Fury at Mark, and at this city, and at this crowd that did not give a damn about any of these boys.

She walked right into the lines of fighters. She strode forward until she stood between Mark and the squire. Ignoring her brother's wrathful order to get out of the way, she shook her finger at the squire's bloody face.

“A fine bit of chivalry you show. You draw a weapon against those who have none? Your strength can not best him, so you reach for the easy advantage. It is clear that you will become the most cowardly of knights. Considering the colors that you wear, I am not surprised.”

The squire's gaze raked her with confusion, but a sneer twisted his face when the assessment was complete. Not a lady, that look said. For all the fine talk, just an impoverished nobody.

“Get out of the way, bitch. And watch your tongue or you will hang from a gibbet at the end of these colors.”

“A big threat from a mere lackey no more than six and
ten in years. Your lord will do nothing at your request. He does not even know your name yet.”

“I said
move
.”

“I will not. We already know that you are a coward. Are you such a great one that you will use that dagger against a woman?”

With exasperated anger he sheathed his weapon, but only to free his hand. He reached for her and shoved.

Another hand appeared out of nowhere. It grasped one of the squire's arms, stopping him abruptly. Long fingers squeezed. The youth's whole body jerked and his grasp fell from her. They squeezed some more and a wince of pain broke the squire's sneer.

It was the mason. He stood there at complete ease, calmly crushing the squire's arm.

“She is right. You are a coward if you will lay hands on a woman,” he said.

“You forget who you deal with,” the squire spit, thrusting the colors of his sleeve under the mason's nose.

“I deal with a boy who does not know when he has lost a fair fight.” A steely glint sparked in the mason's blue eyes. He did not look nearly as kind as he had at her box. “These hands can break stone, boy. Your arm will be an easy thing in comparison. Take your friends and be gone.”

He released his hold. The squire stepped back, red-faced. “My lord will hear of this!”

“Not if you are smart. This city has laws against drawing weapons on its streets. Your lord will not take kindly to you causing trouble within these walls. Now go, or I will tell Mortimer about your behavior myself.”

The squire joined his friends. Donning their arrogance, they swaggered away laughing, as if they had won the day. With their departure, the market flowed again, going about its business.

The mason turned to the motley gang of street toughs.

The command was unmistakable. They began to melt into the crowd.

Mark made to join them. The mason caught him by the scruff of the neck as he walked by. “This belongs to you?” he asked, swinging him around to face Joan.

Mark looked ready to fight again. The mason's tight mouth suggested he almost hoped it happened.

“Aye,” Joan said miserably. She had never seen her brother so angry. He would never forgive her the embarrassment of her interference.

“I thought so. Same hair. Same rash bravery.” He set Mark aside. “You should collect your wares and leave for today. If someone went for a constable, you do not want to be here when he comes.”

“We will go at once. Thank you for your help.”

Mark stood there, brooding and seething. The mason eyed him severely. “Help your sister, boy.”