By Design (3 page)

That did it. Mark's fist flew. The mason merely caught it in his left hand. Joan had never seen a man move so quickly.

Her brother's fury got darker. The mason just held his fist in a firm grasp, gazing back. Her embarrassment grew so intense that she wanted to disappear.

The mason's expression softened a little, as if he comprehended something of the turmoil that rumbled in her brother. “Your sister saved your life. That squire was set to gut you. Now, be a man and get her out of the city.”

The worst of Mark's anger broke, as if he heard some truth in those calm words. He dropped his fist and walked over to her box.

“I am sorry for that. He is very proud, and does not like me playing the mother any more,” Joan said. “Again, I thank you with all my heart.”

She went to join Mark. The mason fell into step with her. “You two are alone?”

“Aye.” Saints, but they were alone. She doubted that any two souls in the world were more alone than Mark and she.

Mark had set the crockery on the ground and turned up the box. A pile of rags waited, but he would not touch them. His pride drew very clear lines about these things. She did not mind. She had taught him herself where the lines should be.

She knelt and began wrapping the crockery so it would not break on the walk home. To her shock the mason dropped to one knee and began to help. There was something disconcerting about his strength next to her. The warmth of his nearness flustered her in a foolish way.

His hands lifted a cup gently and rolled it in an ancient cloth. She almost stopped him. She did not want him to see and touch those pitiful bits of dirty rag. He might recognize them for what they were, the remnants of a life that had been shredded and despoiled. Suddenly, unaccountably, she knew that she would want to die if he pitied her.

“You sold the last statue,” he said while he took a bowl from her hands and carefully packed it in the box.

She nodded while she quickly wrapped the last cup. “I asked for a shilling, as you advised. You were right. He paid it.”

He smiled over at her. She felt herself blushing under his subtle, meandering gaze. She grew more flustered yet. Her hands became clumsy, and the cup rolled out of its rag, down her lap, and onto the ground.

He took the rag and made quick work of the cup. Rising, he offered his hand to help her up.

She looked at that hand, and something sad swelled her
heart and burned her throat. It was just a simple gesture, but it had been years since any man had freely given her even this small courtesy.

She accepted and got up quickly. Her palm felt the dry warmth of his, and the calloused skin. He did not dress like a mason, but he owned the firm hands of one. And the broad shoulders. He was not a bulky man, but a tight strength was evident in his tall, lean lines.

Mark lifted the box and they headed across the square. Once again the mason walked beside her.

She did not want him following her. His help touched vulnerable memories that she could not afford to acknowledge. He reminded her of old times when someone always protected her, and no one expected her to be strong, and no man ever dared to leer. He weakened something in her core, and made her wobbly and nostalgic. She could not afford the luxury of his kindness any longer.

“My brother will stay with me. Again I thank you, Master …” She realized that she did not know his name.

“Rhys.”

“I thank you, Master Rhys.”

She said it with a note of farewell, but he did not leave.

“You need not walk with us. We have delayed you too much as it is.”

“I will see you out of the city. Those squires may have decided to regain their pride with an easy revenge.”

Her mind saw again the danger Mark had faced, and Rhys's brave help.

The memory halted abruptly at some details ignored in the fear of the moment.

“That squire acted as if he knew you,” she said.

“I have seen him about Westminster.”

“You live there?”

“I live in London, but my work takes me to the palace most days.”

Her heart began a slow thudding of caution. “You said that you would report him to his lord. Was that an idle threat?”

“I pass Mortimer most days. If I wanted to speak with him, I expect that I could.” He did not say it boastfully. She had asked a question, and he simply answered it.

“You practice your craft for him?” She heard the bitter accusation in her tone. It gave voice to the sudden heat in her head. He had helped her and she should be grateful no matter who he was and whom he served, but terrible emotions much older than this day started churning her heart.

He angled his head to see her face. A bit of that steely glint had returned to his eyes. “Aye.”

“Have you worked on his castles? His fortifications? Do you repair the walls of the keeps that he destroys while he rapes the realm?”

“Rarely. Castle walls do not require tracery and statues.”

“But you serve him nonetheless, as surely as his knights and his archers.”

“I serve the crown.”

“The crown is under his foot.”

“The squire was right, woman. You speak too freely.”

“It is the only benefit of poverty. Freedom to speak since my opinion is meaningless. At least I am not a lackey to a butcher, like that squire.”
And you
.

He heard the last words even though she did not say them. His face hardened at the insult, but he did not respond to it.

His presence no longer felt comforting and protective. Rather the opposite. If he moved among the court he was dangerous. If he served Mortimer, even
as a craftsman, his honor and character could not be trusted.

That saddened her. It had been nice to believe in him for a while. It had been beautiful to think that he was generous.

“Do you live outside the city?” he asked.

“Aye.”

“In Southwark?”

“Aye.” She did not hesitate with the lie. He had asked the kinds of queries she got from men who soon offered a bad bargain. He might be smoother than most, but he was no different. One could know a man by whom he served, and he served the worst. He no doubt expected her to repay him, and not with crockery. He liked her in that way. It was in the warm looks he gave her.

That worried her. She did not want the interest of a man who passed Mortimer every day. She did not want him remembering anything about her, least of all where she could be found.

At the gate she stopped and faced him.

“I thank you,” she said, trying to make it friendly but dismissive.

“Are those the only words that you know? Besides sharp talk that is both dangerous and insulting?”

“What other words do you want?”

“Not the offer of your favors, as you fear. However, since I risked a fight with a dagger, learning your name would be nice.”

“Forgive me. It is just…”

“I know how it is, pretty dove. You are wise to be careful.”

“Joan. My name is Joan.” There was no danger in giving it. There were thousands of Joans in London.

Mark called impatiently from the gate. Rhys backed
away and made a vague bow. “Until we meet again, Joan. And try to stay out of street brawls.”

She watched with relief as he strolled back into the city. She also experienced a stab of wistful regret. There had been a few delicious minutes there when he had made her feel like the girl she had once been.

They would never meet again, if she could help it.

C
HAPTER
2

R
HYS FOLLOWED THE PAGE
into Queen Isabella's anteroom. Three days of waiting had finally resulted in the meeting she had demanded.

She sat in a carved chair while one of her ladies dressed her brown hair. Luxury surrounded her: colored Spanish tiles and intricate rugs, Flemish tapestries and jewelled silver cups. She let him stand a long while, until the last strand of gold was woven into her coiled plaits. An inspection of her long face in a mirror, a few adjustments for perfection, and then she finally acknowledged him.

Her lidded gaze showed the confidence of a woman who had played an audacious game and won. Rhys did not dislike the Queen. But for her bad judgment in men, the forced abdication of her husband almost four years ago might have saved the realm as she had promised.

“I am told that you are the mason seeing to my window in the chapel here. I am also told that you supervised part of the new fabric at Windsor last year,” she said. “I have a
small manor house that I want to enlarge. Master Stephen suggested you might be right for it.”

“That is generous of Master Stephen.” Oddly so, since Master Stephen, the Queen's principal builder, had a grown son who would also be right for the work.

“Then let us discuss it.” She turned her head. “Mortimer, would you join us?”

A movement in the chamber's darkest corner caught Rhys's attention. A man was reading parchments at a desk there. He rose now and strolled to the Queen's chair.

Rhys's jaw tightened. He did not dislike the Queen, but he hated Roger Mortimer. He hated the man's pomposity and arrogance. He hated his lax mouth and curly dark beard and puffy eyes. He despised the way the man abused whatever power he had. He resented like hell that he had helped raise him up.

Mortimer stood by Isabella's side and placed his hand on her shoulder. She slid her own up and entwined her fingers in his. The gesture symbolized the strength of her affection, which had led her to cling to the power she should have handed over to her son by now. Under this man's influence the Queen had become an extravagant, weak woman.

“This manor house is very small,” Isabella explained. “I am thinking of a new hall, fit for my retinue, and new chambers, too. You will have to go there and see how things are and then consult with me. But I want it made ready so that we can stay there on our way when we visit the Welsh marches.”

The Welsh marches. Mortimer's private realm. He had managed to grab the whole region, and Isabella had elevated him to Earl of March. Rhys had grown up on the Welsh borderland. The only good thing about the current situation was that it kept the man here, and away from those holdings where no one and nothing checked his ruthlessness.

“Where is this property?”

“Wessex.”

“Do you know if there is a quarry on the lands, or nearby? If not, the cost will be very high.”

“I can hardly be expected to know of such things as quarries. You will have to determine that. As to the cost, we will discuss that when you return.”

“And if, upon my return, you decide that the cost is too great?”

Mortimer smiled with benign condescension. “You are concerned that this project will not materialize, and that you will invest your time and journey for nought. You will be very well compensated, for any work that you perform for us.”

At that moment Rhys knew for sure that this audience was not really about building.

It was Mortimer who made the overture. He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “You are familiar to me. How do I know you? Ah, I remember now. Aren't you the mason who served as messenger for the Queen's cause? We were told how useful you were. How you also would pick up bits of information while you went about your craft.”

“Very few bits. I am, after all, only a mason.”

“A freemason?”

“Aye. I cut statues and tracery and moldings back then, and still do between building projects.”

“Your guild is a powerful one. One hears rumors about it. It is said that your members know more about what occurs in the realm than our own sheriffs do.”

“We travel for our craft, and we gossip like all travelers. But any pilgrim knows as much as we do. Now, as to this manor house, when do you want me to go and inspect what needs to be done?”

“Well, that depends, doesn't it?” Isabella said.

“Does it, my lady? On what?”

She sighed with exasperation. “Do not be as dense as the stone that you cut. We want to know what is being said, what rumors and stories you hear. There is treason everywhere, and we need to know of it. You are to tell us those bits of information that you pick up as you go about your craft. We want to hear word of any barons' meetings, brought to the city by masons traveling through. If you serve us well, the work on the manor house is yours, and much more.”

So there it was. An outright bribe.

“Much more,” Mortimer echoed. “Indeed, the Queen is considering a whole new palace there, and not just an enlargement. She wants the Church to establish a new bishopric too, and build a cathedral.”

A very good bribe. A magnificent one. Every mason dreamed of becoming a master builder, and every builder dreamed of planning palaces and cathedrals. He had to give Mortimer his due. The man certainly knew how to buy someone. No wonder he had most of the barons eating out of his hand.

“I doubt that anything I hear will be news to you, or of any value.”

“Let us decide that. Such things are more complex than a man like you can understand.”

Despite the bribe, they were really not offering a choice. “I will do my best, of course.”

They dismissed him then, and turned their attention to each other. The thick doors closed on their mumbling. He walked down to the hall, wondering how long he could put them off with little bits of nothing.