Lady Robyn

Chapter 1
 
Tournament Day
 
Saturday, 26 July 1460, Saint Anne's Day, Baynards Castle, London
 
Morning, just before prime. Up and dressed ahead of the dawn, I hear cock crows from the city. Way too nervous to sleep. Tournament today in the Smithfield mud, the Middle Ages at its messiest. Collin will ride, maybe Edward. Scary when you think about, so I try not to. I must be the only woman in medieval England who craves a mocha in the morning. Happily, I still have some instant…
 
Robyn stopped typing into her journal, tearing open a foil packet lifted from a restaurant table on her last day in twenty-first-century London. Pouring dark crystals into a china cup, she added boiling water from a kettle, enjoying the warm feel of hand-beaten silver on a cold July morning, making modern magic on her medieval oak table. Coffee aroma filled the chill air of her tower bedroom, covering over the dank musty morning-in-a-castle smell while her toes dug for warmth in a carpet that came by caravan over the Roof of the World. This stormy summer of 1460 was the coldest and rainiest the locals could
remember—as they said in Southwark, “Wetter than a bathhouse wedding.”
When witchcraft first brought her to medieval England—much against her will—Robyn would wake up wondering where she was, thinking she was back in modern Britain. Maybe some weird part of Wales. Or at home in California, waking in a strange bed after a wild Hollywood party. (Where am I? And whose bed am I in?) By now she was no longer shocked to awake in 1460—half a millennium before her birth—but having her own bedroom was a pleasant novelty. Most medievals slept two or more to a bed. But not Lady Robyn Stafford of Holy Wood, the barefoot contessa from Roundup, Montana—she wiggled her toes in triumph.
Lady Robyn had a room of her own, with a wood beam floor, Arabian Nights carpets, a cozy fireplace, and three tall narrow views of medieval London, all in an honest-to-god castle, Baynards Castle: the  white-towered keep set in the southwest corner of the city walls, London headquarters for the House of York. Edward had offered her any room in the family castle, and she picked this one for its fireplace and semiprivacy—it had been a tower guardroom, but now it was all hers, complete with handwoven tapestries and a tall wooden bathtub. Unbelievable—magical, really—especially when her last address had a West Hollywood ZIP code. Three months in the Middle Ages, and she practically owned the place.
So what use was worrying? She tried not to think about the tournament—while planning her Saturday around it. Actually, Saint Anne's Saturday.
Happily, she had a head start on her morning, being up and looking like Lady Robyn, sitting at her carved oak table in a long red-gold gown with tight scarlet sleeves buttoned by gold wire studs tied in Stafford knots. Very medieval. Right now Robyn was only nominally a lady, and some had harsher names for her, since not everyone liked her having the most popular boyfriend in London. But one day she would be a countess, and eventually a duchess. “Robyn Plantagenet, Duchess of York,” had a heady ring, even for a former Miss Rodeo Montana. Like a witch condemned to the water test, she was thrown into this wet summer of 1460 to sink or swim; three months later, she was doing quite well, thank you. Half a pound of gold went into her gown, and she had warm fresh milk for her coffee, brought to the castle gate that morning by a man with a cow.
Saying a silent prayer to Aurora, goddess of dawn, and to Saint Anne, whose day it was, she took a first hot grateful sip. “Here's to tournament day, and hoping no one gets hurt. May Mary's mother save them from their foolishness.”
Her first dry Saturday in who knows how long, and she would spend it in the mud at Smithfield, seeing horsemen crash headlong into each other. All because of Edward, who claimed to love her. Men will make you crazy, if you let them, especially medieval men—but by now she had survived worse, way worse. On her fourth morning in the Middle Ages she had to watch a trial by combat, with herself as the prize. Two men in steel armor fought on horseback and afoot beneath the spreading oaks of Sudeley park, deciding if she should be freed or burned at the stake for witchcraft. Freed or fried, all on the swing of a broadsword, something so incredibly frightening it brought shivers to her in the chill safety of her castle bedroom. How could a Saturday joust in the Smithfield mud hope to compare?
Hearing someone stirring on her big white canopy bed, Robyn called out in Gaelic, “Good morning.”
Deirdre, her Welsh-Irish maid, raised her head from amid the bed linen, the girl's sleepy smiling face shining in a halo of red hair. “More witches' brew, m'lady?”
“Want some?” she raised the cup to entice her maid out of bed. At sixteen—“or thereabouts”—Deirdre liked to sleep in. And last night's supper had ended in an impromptu Saint Anne's Eve ball, where grooms, serving girls, young lords, and spirited ladies danced to live music under the stars, a Welsh harp, several drunk fiddlers, and tiny cymbals on the women's fingers sending music out onto the dark streets of London. Half the castle had to be sleeping late this Saint Anne's Day.
“Oh, please yes, m'lady.” Green eyes went wide with anticipation. Introduced to caffeine only a week ago, Deirdre was already an addict.
“If you come get it,” Robyn coaxed her sleepy maid, holding out the cup. When they were alone, or feared being overheard, she used her maid's language. Before coming here, Robyn barely knew Gaelic existed; now she spoke it with Deirdre's Wexford accent as easily as she spoke Latin. Or medieval French. Or Walloon. The spell that brought her here from modern England displaced her “in body and soul, to breathe the air, drink the water, and speak the speech.” Whatever anyone said made immediate sense, and she answered back, be it in Greek or Gaelic. A handy knack, in fact her most useful magical talent. The spell had not brought her here to harm her or strand her among uncomprehending strangers, so it could not have worked otherwise. Witchcraft was like that—intent mattered as much as technique. In fact, the spell was not even meant for her, per se, having been aimed at Edward; making her a fairly innocent bystander.
Deirdre wormed her way down to the foot of the tall canopied bed, still wrapped in Robyn's down comforter. Without getting out of the covers, the teenager leaned over and kissed her mistress good morning; then she took the coffee, sipping greedily. Castles were cold in the morning, even July mornings, and Deirdre slept mother-naked in summer.
“Ummm!” Deirdre murmured, “What makes it so sweet?”
“Chocolate,” she explained, wishing she had brought back more. “Comes from the seeds of the cocoa tree in America.”
“America must be amazing, if this is what grows on trees.”
“Most amazing,” Robyn agreed, watching her redheaded bed worm drink—knowing Deirdre lumped all her America stories together, imagining the pre-Columbian United States inhabited by Indians cruising the Internet in SUVs, eating chocolate out of trees. Picked up during Robyn's one-day stay in Ireland, Deirdre was a cheerful Welsh-Irish bastard, determined to get as far as guts and talent could take her. Quick with languages, the girl was alternatively talkative and dreamy, her head full of teenage lust and fairy tales, believing in true love, pixies, leprechauns, and birds born from barnacles. Happily doing chores for pennies a day and a chance to sleep out of the rain, Deirdre was fairly useless as a lady's maid, but a godsend nonetheless. Despite their vast differences in rank, age, and nationality—not to mention coming from different millennia—Robyn and her maid were soul mates, exiles forced to live by other people's rules. Deirdre saw it at once, going straight from serving girl to lady's companion and sometime partner in crime, the first member of Lady Robyn Stafford's household-to-be.
It said much about the Middle Ages that her Welsh-Irish maid got more use out of the big feather bed than she did—in part because Robyn was newly betrothed to a teenage sex maniac—but mostly because the Middle Ages was one grand game of musical beds. Deirdre normally slept on the floor, moving up to the bed when her mistress slept in the master bedroom or went visiting. Noble households could be incredibly nomadic. Since coming here, Robyn had slept in palaces on silk sheets, in open fields and rain-soaked tents, in churches and nunneries, in shepherds' rests and dungeon cells—a great succession of beds, not all as clean as they could be—sharing them with everyone from an imprisoned witch-child to an amorous young earl.
Prime bells sounded, calling Baynards Castle to chapel. Deirdre surrendered the coffee, smiling mischievously. “Today is tournament day. Will Lord Edward ride?”
“Mayhap.” She did not like to think of Edward hurling himself at another heavily armored horseman, not even in fun. Fortunately, her true love was impetuous but not foolhardy. Most days at least.
Deirdre grinned at her, warm and snug, happy to be “far and away” sharing her magical adventure on this fairy isle with its feather beds and dark, sweet potions. “Mayhap my Lord Edward of March has ridden himself full out already this morning?”
Grabbing a big feather pillow from the bed, Robyn swatted her maid, saying, “No wonder Saxons hang the wild Irish out of hand.”
“The wild godless Irish,” Deirdre giggled from beneath the pillow. Last time Robyn roomed with a teenager was in
college—but in some ways the Dark Ages were like one long sleepover, sans CDs or VCRs, with no privacy and nothing to do but play dress-up and gossip about each other's sex lives, while prepping for pop quizzes in medieval history. Deirdre stuck her red head out from under the bedding, begging for details. “Well, has he, then?”
“No! My Lord Edward of March has not ‘ridden' this morning. I left him fast asleep, another young lie-abed like you.” Edward thoroughly enjoyed last night's dancing, and would sleep past morning Mass—too bad he would not sleep through the tournament too. She swatted her maid again. Born and brought up in a family bed—listening to her parents making more siblings—Deirdre was a shameless bastard child, demanding in on everything. “Come! Up with you!” Robyn commanded, ordering her “household” out of bed. “Get your naked heathen body up and dressed for chapel—or I shall surely have the Saxons hang you.”
“More witches' brew first,” Deirdre insisted, showing why the Irish made such hopeless servants. Deirdre knew her mistress from the far future was an uncommonly soft touch, with no heart to turn her out, or even to see her beaten. Having stumbled onto an amazingly good thing, Deirdre made the most of it, mixing willful disobedience and deathless devotion. Robyn handed up the cup, keeping her maid occupied while she typed in her journal.
* * *
Make that the only woman out of her teens who craves chocolate and caffeine. Deirdre is definitely hooked. Prime already, have to run. More later…
* * *
She hit save. Closing her electronic journal, she tucked it in an inner pocket in her flowing red-gold gown. Medieval women had a hundred places to hide things on their person, a huge advance over tight jeans and a halter top. Aside from her digital watch, her journal was the only bit of consumer electronics she'd brought with her—all that remained of the high-tech third millennium. That plus a thermos flask, some small lighters and flashlights, and her precious stock of pain pills, antibiotics, tampons, batteries, chocolate, and toilet paper. Real medieval musts, doled out sparingly, like her supply of coffee—four more foil packets and five pounds of drip grind. That was almost all she brought with her from the twenty-first century, unless you counted things like her VISA card—which got her out of Berkeley Castle by lifting the dungeon door latch from inside but was otherwise fairly useless. Slipping on her crimson slippers, she dressed Deirdre in red-gold Stafford livery, then led her maid down to the castle's ornate chapel to pray—still worried for Edward, sleeping away on his white-and-gold canopy bed.
Today was Saint Anne's Day. Mary's mother. Jesus' grandmother. Going down on her knees, Robyn begged Mary's mother for her blessing and guidance on this, her day, and in the days to come. She beseeched Saint Anne to keep the contestants safe in the coming tourney and to specifically keep Edward, earl of March, out of the lists completely. Amen.
Her prayers were utterly heartfelt. Morning prayer was compulsory, but that was no reason to waste it. Three months in the Middle Ages had made a believer out of her. Religion was everywhere here: in people's hearts, thoughts, and daily deeds, in the songs she sang, in the air she breathed. Before coming here, she had not so much as heard of Saint Anne. Now she absolutely believed in Saint Anne and in the miracles Saint Anne could do. She had seen the miracles. Sounds crazy? You literally had to be here.
For Saint Anne was also Hecate, the witch goddess. God's grandmother, the pagan death crone. The Mother's mother. Goddess of death and rebirth. Which was why Saint Anne's symbol was a witch's broom. Whether you called her Saint Anne, or Hecate, or Lilith, her power had brought Robyn to the Middle
Ages—to stubbornly deny that miracle would do her no good.
Crossing herself, she took Communion; not for the first time in the Middle Ages breaking her fast with the body of Christ. Another medieval miracle.
Then off to Smithfield. Putting herb tea and burnt toast on top of the Blessed Sacrament, she ordered her white mare saddled, along with Deirdre's chestnut gelding. Her bullion-trimmed gown was hopeless on horseback, but she had a gold riding dress and a tight sleeveless crimson jacket given to her the day she arrived in medieval England—Sir Collingwood Grey would see what good use she got of them. She added pearls at her throat and a horned headdress with silk streamers trailing almost to the ground; being a lady in London meant looking the part. Little silver bells rang on her saddle bow as she rode out of Baynards Castle with Deirdre in tow. Hidden beneath her dress folds was a heavy double-edged saxe knife, tucked in a leather sheath sewn to her saddle—this was, after all, the Middle Ages.
Beggars waited by the castle gate, baring their stumps and sores, crying, “Have pity, m'lady. Please have pity.”
How could she not? She had silver pennies ready in her purse, and she leaned in the saddle to pass them out, along with words of good cheer, getting beggars' blessings in return. Expecting to see hordes of beggars in the Middle Ages, Robyn was surprised to find most medievals had jobs, or plots of land to work, leaving little time to go begging. Those who did so took the task seriously—going straight to the gates of the wealthy or the steps of cathedrals. Prime spots were like handicap parking spaces, and gate tolls for the rich to pay. She gladly gave out the pennies, paying her debt to poverty with an open heart, thanking Heaven to have escaped such suffering. Three months ago she arrived here alone and friendless, and she could have ended up a penniless cripple or worse, instead of a countess-to-be. She was luckier than they, infinitely luckier, and every morning she gave thanks, sharing a little of her luck.
Blind and maimed faces smiled back at her, enthusiastically calling out gap-toothed blessings, not blaming her in the least for being healthy and pretty and for riding a beautiful white mare. None of which was her doing anyway—health and good looks were God's fault, and Lily was a gift from Edward, given to her when they were in Calais. So was Deirdre's chestnut gelding, Ainlee—named for a line in the sagas:
 
Tall Ainlee bearing a load on his back…
 
Most medievals did not blame her for her good fortune, believing that Heaven's mercy must be arbitrary and undeserved, or else it would be justice—not mercy.
Thanking the beggars for their blessings, she straightened in the saddle, trotting on into the city. Baynards Castle stood beside the river on Upper Thames
Street—between Blackfriars and Saint Paul's Wharf. Emerging from the castle gatehouse, she saw the river docks jammed by horse drays and cursing stevedores while huge cranes swung casks of Spanish wine out of a caravel blown by the wind from Cádiz to her castle door. Men called out, “Wage! Wage!” and “Go we hence!” to boatmen plying the slack tide above London Bridge, while a nearby cog unloaded dirt from the Holy Land, used for church foundations and for filling graves. She loved how the city hit you, a wall of sights and sounds, beggars with their hands out, boatmen doing business amid barges reeking of offal and spices, making her feel like Queen Alice riding through the looking-glass world “of shoes—and ships—and sealing wax—/ of cabbages—and kings.”
Sailors waved, shouting ribald greetings that Lady Robyn did not return. Veering away from the traffic jam on Thames Street, she urged Lily up Ludgate Hill, with Deirdre close behind her, headed for the massive pile of Saint Paul's, which towered above the city walls, its gold-tipped steeple thrust fifty stories into the sky, a stone spear aimed straight at God. In the churchyard beneath, lawyers consulted with cutpurses while visiting clerics ranted against the sinful city and Cock Lane whores loitered patiently, ready to give sinners something to confess. Lacking TV and newspapers, medievals made do with reality, living life on display, a perpetual live-action pageant-cum-morality play with faith, toil, pomp, and poverty all playing parts in the daily drama. Priests proclaimed God's word at Saint Paul's Cross, competing with street musicians and bakers' touts. Criminals sat pelted in the stocks or begged alms from cell windows. Artisans worked before their customers. Love offered herself brazenly for sale. Shakespeare would not be born for a hundred years, but this was the world his metaphors came from: “All the world's a stage, / And all the men and women merely players.…”
Back home in Hollywood, Robyn had ached for a starring role, and now she had one, in this real-time theater in the round—Lady Robyn Stafford, countess-to-be and friend of the king—she could hardly complain at the casting.
She paused to admire the huge cruciform cathedral—having become a connoisseur of churches—the Middle Ages being pretty much made for them. In Manhattan, even cathedrals could look small, squatting beneath skyscrapers, but Old Saint Paul's reared over packed rooftops the way a cathedral should, braced by flying buttresses and studded with crosses, a huge hymn to Heaven sculpted out of glass and stone. And Robyn was the only person from her time to see it—Old Saint Paul's would burn in the Great Fire of 1666, two hundred years in “the future.”
Ignoring cook's boys crying, “Kidney pie!” or “Hot sheeps' feet! Cheap!” she checked her watch—10:12:17 a.m.—deciding to dawdle. Tournament time was not until noon; nor was she in a rush to get there. Instead of going straight out Ludgate to Smithfield, she set off the long way around, down Watling Street to Newgate, drawing greetings from the doorways to drapers' shops. Serving women stopped work to wave and smile, leaning out of upper-story windows to get a look at her
gown—which cheered her immensely. She returned the greetings merrily, to show that seeing into the future and sleeping with an earl did not make her snooty. Lord Edward's witchy lady was genuinely popular in London, almost from the moment the city opened her gates to the rebel earls and she rode in behind Edward. Three weeks ago on the fourth of July, diehard lords holding the Tower of London threw wildfire onto East Cheap, setting fires and sowing terror. Riding into Cheapside to return a missing child, she promised Edward would bring King Henry back to London and retake the Tower. Her offhand prophecy came true—partly by her doing—sealing her reputation as a seeress, a white witch with London's good at heart. She heard an apprentice boy shout, “Look, 'tis Lord Edward's lovely strumpet. Gawd, I would I were him.”
British boys did not lack ambition. And she loved dirty old London back, despite the appalling sights and smells. This was the Middle Ages at its most magical, when one could personally right wrongs and see justice done, then get grateful thanks. She risked her life to return the king to London, free the Tower, and bring down Lord Scales—suffering mightily to do it. For which she deserved a single tower room, a white mare, a few outrageous outfits, a dreamy teenage maid, and a rich boyfriend. At least most Londoners thought so, and who was she to argue?
Deirdre bought a branch of cherries from a fruiterer, offering her some. “Cherries, m'lady?” Seeing they were unwashed, Robyn ate a couple, figuring cherries off the branch were safer than the tainted water used to wash them—and she never need worry about industrial pollutants or insecticides.
“More, m'lady?” Her maid hopefully held out another handful. One of Deirdre's duties was to force doubtful food on her picky mistress—notorious for demanding boiled water and thorough cooking.
“Too tart.” She shook her head. “With all this rain, they have not sweetened.” Green cherries for sale were a bad sign; maybe all they would see of this summer's crop. Deirdre finished off the branch, enjoying a teenager's appetite, eating like a plow horse but never looking worse than “shapely.”
Turning at Bow Lane, she passed the parish church of Saint Mary le Bow—one of her favorites. The Bow Bell sounded the
nine-o'clock curfew, and the hours of the night along with Saint Bride's, Saint Giles without Cripplegate, and All Hallows Barking. When she was a girl growing up in Montana, her father read her the story of Dick Whittington, who traded his cat for a fortune and won the hand of his true love—it was the Bow Bell that called Dick back to London when he despaired, promising to make him lord mayor. Like London Bridge, this little Cheapside church was a place out of a fairy tale that had come alive for her.
And like Joan of Arc, Mary le Bow was a secret reference to Diana, the witch goddess with the moon bow. Robyn's coven name was Diana, and one of Mary le Bow's parishioners, Beth Lambert, the ten-year-old daughter of a Cheapside alderman, was her sister-initiate. As she passed, she said a silent prayer to her secret namesake, Hecate's granddaughter, the virgin huntress, protector of women and children.
Hearing low piping, she urged Lily forward, saying, “Let's see what's happening.” Medievals used music when they wanted to make noise—using trumpets for loudspeakers, and pipes and bells for sirens—a most pleasant practice. She emerged on West Cheap, London's great market street running from Newgate to the center of town. Called Cheapside—or simply the Street—West Cheap was the medieval Rodeo Drive, reputedly the richest thoroughfare in Christendom, lined with gold- and silversmiths, clothiers and tapestry dealers. Venetians confessed that all the cities in Italy could not match the array of handwrought silver found along Cheapside. Absolutely the perfect spot for a slow Saturday morning ride, taking her mind off the coming tournament.
Her happy mood evaporated as soon as she saw the source of the music. Robyn halted, instantly sorry she went this way, wishing she had gone straight out Ludgate to Smithfield. Down the street marched a dismal parade led by pipers, constables, an undersheriff, and a herald in city colors—escorting a wretched prisoner to punishment. Behind them walked a teenage waif with short ragged hair, sad brown eyes, and dirty bare feet, her neck in a rope halter, her small hands tied behind her. Her homespun tunic had the striped hood of a prostitute. Seeing the poor bound girl led past the Cheap-side goldsmith shops by gaily dressed men in padded doublets summed up just about all Robyn's misgivings about the Middle Ages.
Her heart went out to this child hauled along by a hard-faced pack of men. Many medieval women were little, but this one was tiny, looking barely old enough to have sex, much less wear a whore's hood. Excited boys followed her, aiming to see her punished, maybe hoping to lend a hand. At least no one was jeering. Medieval justice could be ugly; a month ago in Sandwich, Robyn saw a thief nailed to a post by his ear. Given a knife to cut himself free, the felon stood nerving himself for the deed as she rode past—medieval jurisprudence at its most picturesque. Deirdre drew rein beside her, asking blandly, “Which way, m'lady?”
Which way, indeed? All hope of a thoughtless shopping spree vanished. Sunny Saint Anne's Day had suddenly darkened. Just up the street was Saint Paul's churchyard, and across from it London's chief sanctuary, Saint Martin-le-Grand—a haven for thieves, murderers, and political refugees. Farther along lay Newgate and the city walls, and beyond that Smithfield. This unhappy procession was headed the other way, down Cheapside toward the stock and poultry markets, deeper into the city.
And she had to follow. She had not hung around to see that thief in Sandwich cut his ear off, but this girl was different, with her child's eyes and tearstained cheeks. Robyn could not just leave her to whatever these men devised. She told Deirdre, “This way,” turning to join the sad parade down Cheapside.
Deirdre understood at once, deftly steering her gelding to follow her gold-and-scarlet lady down the street. Her maid might sleep in, and have to be dressed most mornings, but Deirdre was smart, brave, and incredibly loyal, trusting no one but her mistress amid all these mad Saxons. Warily she switched to Gaelic, asking, “What will they do to her?”
“I do not know,” Robyn admitted. Aside from twitchy subjects like heresy, witchcraft, and treason, laws here and now were not much worse than at home. Torture and animal testimony were frowned on, and women had surprisingly many rights—even though the laws were made and administered by men. Laws on whoring were better than most. Instead of criminalizing harlots, London tried to keep them out of the city, in Cock Lane in Smithfield, or across the river in Southwark, where the kindhearted Bishop Waynflete saw that his “Winchester Geese” were not confined to baths and brothels but had their own
homes—keeping men from living off the earnings or prostituting their wives. “I do not think they will hurt her,” she told Deirdre. “They probably mean to humiliate her, then march her to Cock Lane.”
Her maid looked dubious, pointing out, “Cock Lane is in the other direction.”
Which it was, back behind them, beyond the city walls, between Newgate and Smithfield. Robyn sighed, admitting, “They may want to pillory her too.”
Deirdre did not reply, having a healthy Irish dread of English justice. Both maid and mistress felt instant sympathy for any woman abused over sex, knowing their own personal lives and pedigrees could not stand much critical scrutiny. Robyn herself rode a fine white mare and wore a gold dress, gifts from an earl and a knight, both of whom she had made love to—only luck, poetic license, and a lot of romantic derring-do separated Lady Robyn from this girl being led along on a rope.
Green odors came from the grocers' shops on Bucklersbury Lane, mixed with the smell of soap and spices. Robyn saw the bound bedraggled girl gaze longingly toward the Great Conduit, where spring water was piped in from Paddington, looking back as the rope pulled her past. Plainly the child was thirsty. Luckily Robyn never left the castle without clean bottled water in her saddlebag; her problem was getting it to the prisoner. She had more silver pennies in her purse, as well, and five gold nobles each worth a week's wages, not much for a bribe, but it might pay a fine. Her current popularity also counted for something—medieval London was still a fairly small town, with small-town notions of justice. Who you were, and who you knew, mattered a lot. But she never planned putting her popularity on the line for some unknown teenage prostitute. Up to now she had just been enjoying her celebrity.
Silver bells rang softly on her saddle as she entered the dark heart of the city, which was poorer, dirtier, and packed with ordinary folks. Cheapside became the Poultry, cutting though the Stocks Market, a mass of open-air stalls for poulters, butchers, fishmongers, and secondhand dealers—the narrow crowded gut of London, where hen-wives came to sell their eggs and burglars unloaded their loot. Ahead lay Cornhill, the city's bread basket. Glad to see no one gathering offal and spoiled eggs from the stalls, Robyn tried to judge the mood of the crowd. When she first arrived, she feared the medievals would be stupid and
cruel—and some exceeded her expectations wonderfully—but most were incredibly friendly, cheerfully enduring appalling hardships, happily sharing their pittance with her. Yet these same pious, friendly folks gladly took the law in their hands, and not just to fling filth at some wretch in the stocks. When Edward and Warwick gave the lord constable a safe conduct in exchange for surrendering the Tower, London boatmen beat his lordship to death for daring to throw fire on East Cheap. Happily the mood today seemed more somber; no one looked to hurt this girl—the law would see to that.
Seeing a woman walking ahead of her in a flowing green velvet gown along with a lady's maid in matching livery, Robyn urged Lily forward, catching up as they climbed Cornhill. Introducing herself to the startled matron, she discovered this was Dame Agnes Forster, wife of a wealthy fishmonger and former mayor. White haired, with that prematurely aged look much in vogue here and now, Dame Agnes turned out to be another medieval surprise, a prison reformer, busy building an addition to Ludgate prison “for the better sort of felons, debtors, and shopkeepers taken with stolen goods—well embattled, but with large fair walks where prisoners may take their ease.” Dame Agnes pleaded with her, “Will you help this girl? I did talk with her in Newgate, and believe her to be both godly and innocent.”
Robyn promised to do what she could. “I have money to pay a fine, but I feared they would put her in the pillory.”
“Fine? Pillory?” Dame Agnes looked quizzically up at her, clutching her rosary beads; like everyone else hereabouts, Dame Agnes was a Catholic. “This girl is to be burned.”
“Burned?” Shock washed over Robyn like ice water, freezing her in the saddle. “What do you mean?”
“Burned alive at the stake,” Dame Agnes explained patiently, as if Lady Robyn might be somehow unacquainted with the custom. “At Tyburn within the hour.”
“What in Heaven for?” Her first thought was witchcraft, but she did not say so aloud. Being a future sorceress herself, she hated getting people thinking in that direction, especially when the law was at hand, with women already in custody.
“Murder,” replied Dame Agnes as simply as if it made sense.
“Murder?” The girl was not big enough to assault a mouse.
“That is what the law called it, and no one spoke for her. Is it true you know the king?” asked Dame Agnes, who clearly knew her reputation.        
Robyn nodded silently. She had indeed eaten off the royal plate and spent an uncomfortable half hour in King Henry's tent, waiting to see who won the battle of Northampton. Poor Mad King Henry liked her, and he was another notorious soft touch who hated seeing harm done or women abused. But Henry was in Westminster—by the time she got there and back this girl would be burnt.
“And my lord, the earl of March?” Dame Agnes added hopefully, hinting that Robyn's noble paramour might help.
She nodded again. Edward was a far better bet than King Henry: more attentive, decisive, and eager to act—but even harder to find. He was meeting that morning with the Nevilles, then would be headed for Westminster himself, planning to be back at Smithfield by noon. At the moment Edward could be anywhere between Warwick Street and Westminster. His crisp way of getting things done made him nearly impossible to catch, as Edward's enemies learned to their cost.
“Surely Lord Edward would listen if you begged to spare this girl,” Dame Agnes suggested, seemingly well acquainted with Lady Robyn's love life. Lacking paparazzi and tabloid TV, Londoners had to observe romance among the rich and famous firsthand. Nor did pious Dame Agnes balk at using sin to save a soul. British practicality easily triumphed over Church dogma.
“He would,” Robyn agreed, tightening her headdress before going into action. “If we could but find him in time.” Seeing Dame Agnes looking downcast, nervously telling her beads, she advised the old woman, “Have courage, and pray to Saint Anne. This is her day, and she will not see it sullied.” And Hecate's day, as well. Privately Robyn begged the goddess of death not to take the child. No rich, powerful, good-intentioned man was going to save this girl—that would be up to her and Deirdre. And Hecate. And Dame Agnes, if the former Mrs. Mayor was game for it.
Parade's end came at Cornhill, London's grain market, where citizens bought big, carted-in country loaves and drew water piped from Tyburn through “The Tun Upon Cornhill.” Atop the Tun sat a cage full of drunks and nightwalkers snared by the city watch; nearby stocks held an egg-spattered apothecary, his crooked weights hanging around his neck. Medieval justice was relentlessly public—going beyond courtroom TV to audience participation. Crime must hide, but law was there for all to see, and even take part in. Far from being bashful about burning this girl, they piped her through the heart of the city to proclaim her guilt right at the bread counter of this huge open-air shopping mall.
Sellers and buyers stopped to stare at the small scared convict brought for sentencing. Bright solid colors made a London mob look like a walking tarot deck, ready to reveal this girl's fate. Women in the crowd clumped around Robyn and Dame Agnes, drawn by a lady's presence, taking this chance to stand near one of the new stars in the noble soap opera that passed for national politics. Robyn's own gaze stayed on the girl. On Saturday, “foreign” butchers from the countryside set up their blocks in Cornhill before stalls full of livestock, letting customers select animals for slaughter. It was heartbreaking to see the barefoot girl standing with her hands bound behind her, unself-consciously studying the doomed pigs. Every so often her brown eyes turned toward the Tun, and her pink tongue licked at parched lips.
Burning this child was one thing, but making her stand near a fountain, aching to drink, was needlessly cruel. Reaching into her saddlebag, Robyn found the squeeze bottle of boiled water; then with a silent nod to Deirdre, she rode out from amid the knot of women, bells jiggling softly on her saddle. Parting the men with her horse, she reined in right before the thirsty girl. Guards looked questioningly at their betters. Sitting up in the saddle, she spoke loudly to the undersheriff: “Please to God, let me give her water. Worse criminals than her walk free—and we all have unpunished sins on our conscience.”
Searching the silent crowd for friends, she recognized only one man, Matt Davye, no longer wearing Duke Holland's livery—but his bluff alert features were unmistakable. Ironically he was one of the guards who held her and Joanna Grey prisoner in the Tower, and someone for whom her words should have real meaning. Matt Davye had felt pity for his prisoners, bringing them food, blankets, and words of hope—this good deed kept Matt Davye from standing trial before Earl Warwick in the Guildhall when the rest of Duke Holland's men were condemned. But did Matt Davye know his mercy had saved him? And what difference would it make to him if he did?
Ashamed, the undersheriff signaled for his sergeants to step back. Unscrewing the plastic squirt cap, Robyn gave the girl a drink straight from the bottle. Gulping greedily, head tilted back, eyes closed, and hands tied behind her, the prisoner let cool clean water flow down her slim throat. Finally, the girl paused to breathe, looking up at her and saying softly, “Thank you, m'lady.”
She nodded, holding the bottle level with the girl's lips, knowing the child would want more, asking, “What is your name?”
“Mary, m'lady,” the girl replied, doing a polite bobbing curtsy without taking her gaze off the bottle.
Named for the Virgin; that made it perfect. She gave Mary more water, making sure the girl drank her fill. When the girl was done, Robyn asked, “How old are you?”
Mary wiped her lips on her shoulder and thought for a moment. “Fifteen—or so.”
Medievals were often unsure of their age, and they were not bashful about trying teenagers as adults. Edward, her betrothed, was condemned to death for treason at seventeen—a sentence still not officially lifted. And Joan of Arc was burned at nineteen. But both Joan and Edward had asked for it, putting on armor and leading rebellions against Mad King Henry. Robyn could not believe this girl's offenses were anywhere near that grave, asking, “Did you kill anyone?”
“No, m'lady.” Mary said it easily, without hesitation, as though politely answering an adult's question that had little to do with her predicament.
Robyn screwed the plastic cap back on and slipped the squeeze bottle into her saddlebag, unsure of what to do next. Send Deirdre to find Edward? No way—not enough time, and far too chancy. Do that, and she was sure to end up wishing Deirdre were with her. Plead Mary's case to these men? Another waste of time. Without the power to pardon her, all they could do was stubbornly haul Mary to Tyburn and carry out the sentence. Medievals could be sticklers for doing the right thing—especially when it was all wrong. Nor would they relent just because her boyfriend was the earl of March. Gripped with a sick feeling, Robyn somehow had to stop this. Seeing men burn this grave, serious girl would surely drive her mad.
Mary made a soft sound to get her attention, asking shyly, “If it pleases m'lady, could I but beg a favor?”
Robyn nodded slowly, saying, “If I can, I will.” She hated to sound grudging, but she had to be careful of what she promised. As a known seeress and not too secret witch, she had to be wary of flat-out defying the law.
Leaning closer, balancing on her bare toes, Mary whispered her request. “Please have them hang me, m'lady. For I sorely fear the fire.”
Who did not? But the matter-of-fact way Mary put it tore at Robyn's heart. She had been near to where this girl stood, accused of treason and witchcraft, waiting beneath the oaks of Sudeley park to see if she would be saved or burned—but there at least she'd had a champion, and a fighting chance. Mary had neither, making simple hanging seem a blessing. She searched the men's faces for someone to listen to her pleas, to be Mary's champion, and still saw no one she knew but Matt Davye, who'd only lately escaped the gallows himself. Where were are all those handsome knights-errant when you needed them? Some of the best would be breaking lances at Smith-field this afternoon, but Mary would be ashes by then. She forced herself to smile for the girl, saying gently, “I will see what I can do.”
“Thank you, m'lady.” The girl smiled back up at her. “I would have twelve hangings before one burning.” Medievals well knew a person could be hanged more than once; public executions were sometimes taken on the road, with repeat performances in various cities. Mary did another bobbing hands-bound curtsy, buoyed by the hope of being hanged.
Unrolling his scroll, the herald in city colors turned his face to one side, opening his mouth like a trumpet, blasting out words that reached the back of the crowd. Robyn stayed with the girl while sentence was read, hearing Mary called a harlot and murderer, guilty of fornication, incest, and manslaughter—leading a brief life so steeped in sin it could be cleansed only by fire. Medievals would be apalled by the secretive hospital-cum-assembly-line executions held at home, believing punishment must be brutal and public. Secret executions were the tool of tyrants afraid to do their deeds in daylight. Also a terrible waste—what was learned from a tragedy no one saw? Rejecting modern one-size-fits-all justice, medievals had degrees of capital punishment, and Mary's most heinous crime was domestic treason—according to the herald, the man she killed was both her stepfather and her husband. Burning was saved for hardened rebels against nature, like heretics who denied God—and wives who murdered their husbands.
Smooth and smug as the jack of hearts, the herald finished off by begging God's mercy and declaring the sentence to be carried out this day at Tyburn. Guards moved to separate the girl from Robyn, and Mary started to look scared, tears welling in her eyes, saying, “Please do not leave, m'lady. Tell them I must hang.”
Reaching down from the saddle, Robyn laid her hand on the girl's small shoulder, feeling fine bones through the thin fabric. Mary calmed immediately, murmuring thanks and kissing “m'lady's” fingers. For a long moment Robyn sat there saying a secret prayer to Hecate and Saint Anne, letting the girl draw courage from her presence. Then reluctantly she removed her hand, turning the girl over to the priest-confessor, saying, “Do not fear, I will go with you. Heaven will protect you.”
Heaven had better hurry, because these men meant to burn her. Holding down a hollow ache, Robyn turned to rejoin Deirdre and saw that the formerly silent crowd was weeping. Men's eyes were wet, and women sobbed quietly. Medievals saw suffering aplenty—even the rich and beautiful must kneel to a tortured Christ and pass beggars at the castle gate—but who could not be moved by Mary's plight? At absolute worst Mary killed a man who married his teenage stepdaughter in order to abuse and pimp her—more cause for a medal than for burning. Small wonder taking her to Tyburn was put on an undersheriff and some sergeants. No one felt good about this. No one but the law—which had a killing and a “murderess,” and meant to make the most of it. Law had not changed a lot in five-hundred-odd years, except to get less squeamish. Instead of hiding its mistakes in clogged courts and lengthy appeals, medieval law would march Mary back up Cheapside and out Newgate, to Tyburn, where the wood and stake were waiting, playing sad music all the way.
Which left justice pretty much up to Lady Robyn. How horribly unfair. She got up this morning, not meaning to help anyone except Edward—stopping him from riding in his silly tournament. Had she resisted the urge to shop and put things off, she could be in Smithfield right now, having a so-so morning preparing for the joust. When she finally heard about Mary's fate, she would have been perfectly horrified, saying a prayer for the poor sinner and then going on with her day. Only it was not her day—obviously—it was Saint Anne's.
Turning about, the sad procession headed back down Cornhill through the stock markets. Medieval law took the “last mile” literally. Riding a couple of horse lengths behind the condemned, Robyn felt her stomach tighten. Thankfully, she had nothing in her but burned toast, a pair of green cherries, and the Communion wafer. She felt totally pure. Which was good—since Mary plainly needed a miracle, and needed it now. Three months in the Middle Ages had taught Robyn that miracles never happened on their own. Heaven always had a helping hand. Feeling under her gold dress folds, she checked her saxe knife, sliding off the leather loop holding it in the saddle sheath. Given to her by a Welsh witch, the big knife was razor sharp and ready.
Defying the law could cost her everything: position, comfort, her proposed marriage, her promised duchy, even her life. But she asked Saint Anne to show her the way, and here was Heaven's answer, “Make yourself useful.” Living in a castle, being betrothed to a handsome boy on the Royal Council, having a fine white mare to ride—it all came at a cost. At home in West Hollywood, horrible things happened to teenage prostitutes, but there she did nothing aside from feeling sorry and afraid. Here she lacked that luxury. She was Lady Robyn Stafford, beloved of an earl and friend to the king; if she could do nothing for this child, who could? Letting Mary be dragged off and burned made a mockery of noblesse oblige—not to mention the rebel claim to be building a better England. Having accepted the rewards of running the country, Robyn had to take the risks, as well.
Drawing her heavy knife, she signed to Deirdre, and her maid was alongside her at once. Handing Deirdre the saxe knife, she made sure their hands touched, drawing strength from the warm contact, whispering in Gaelic, “Be ready.”
Deirdre understood, deftly palming the big knife. Never pretending to trust Saxon justice, Deirdre had her skirts tucked and her palfrey ready. For somone so excitable, her maid could be amazingly cool in a crisis, anticipating trouble and awaiting her moment. No matter how bad things got, a Wexford girl had seen worse. Much worse.
The Poultry turned back into Cheapside, with its drapers' shops and silversmiths. Ahead she could see Saint Paul's and the sanctuary of Saint Martin-le-Grand, and beyond them Newgate, and the road to Tyburn. Finish line in sight, she summoned up her courage, clutching sweat-soaked reins, her legs gripping her saddle leather. The former Miss Rodeo Montana, her heart in her throat, was ready to ride. At Mary's age, she had ridden before roaring crowds at breakneck speeds, becoming a blue-ribbon barrel racer, before she fell and broke her leg. Beyond the sanctuary of Saint Martin-le-Grand, she saw the barred windows of Newgate, where Mary's day had begun. Prisoners would be watching the procession, some undoubtedly awaiting their own trip to Tyburn.
Time to give the shut-ins a show. She leaned forward in the saddle, saying a silent prayer to Hecate and Saint Anne, then calling to Deirdre in Gaelic, “Cut the rope.”
Deirdre bolted past her, blade in hand, riding like an Irish Comanche, legs tucked, head down, red hair streaming behind her. Bowling aside surprised sergeants, the serving girl drew rein, seizing the long dangling rope tying Mary to the undersheriff ahead. Looping it around the double-edged blade, Deirdre jerked hard, slicing the loop.
Spurring Lily, Robyn shot after her maid, pounding down the path Deirdre cleared, leaning low in the saddle, silk flapping on her headdress. As the line parted, Robyn scooped up the bound girl, then did a barrel-racing turn, and headed for the gateway of Saint Martin-le-Grand with Mary tucked across her lap. Dodging startled spectators, she made for the open gate, bells ringing madly on her saddle, showing surprised Londoners how Miss Rodeo Montana could ride. Mary stared up at her, wide-eyed in wonder, her striped hood badly askew, astonished at finding herself on horseback with the cut halter rope still dangling from her neck.
Suddenly an armored sergeant appeared in the gateway, bellowing threats and waving a brown bill—a huge ugly pole arm, half-ax and half-pruning hook. She could not go around him—no room. His hideous weapon went up to block her, gleaming in the sunlight, able to take off her head or Lily's leg. But if she reined in, hands would seize her from behind, pulling her back out of the saddle—like Joan of Arc's capture at Compiègne.
Without warning, the sergeant pitched suddenly forward, hit behind the knees by a perfect flying block. Seeing him go down, Robyn urged Lily to leap, holding tight to the girl in her lap. Hoofbeats ceased, giving way to a tinkling of saddle bells as they flew through the air. Looking down, she saw the sergeant and his assailant grappling beneath her in the gateway. Matt Davye had his knee in the sergeant's armored midriff—delivering a timely goal-line block.
Courtyard cobblestones rushed up to greet her. She tightened her grip on Mary as Lily came crashing to earth like a white avalanche. Iron hooves rang sparks on the stones, drawing cheers from the cutthroats and gallows' bait inhabiting the sanctuary of Saint Martin-le-Grand, accompanied by cries of, “Well ridden, m'lady. Welcome to Saint Martin's.”
Doing a skidding dismount, Robyn slid out of the saddle and onto the stones, hoisted Mary to her shoulders, and staggered up the broad steps of Saint Martin's, tripping on her skirts, her headdress askew. The assembled outlaws cried delightedly, “Mind the gown, m'lady!” And, “Spare your haste, Mass is on the morrow.”
Ignoring the gibes, she lurched through the open church door with Mary on her shoulders and stumbled into the tall stone nave bathed in colored sunlight that fell from stained glass. Astonished monks rushed to meet her as she tottered toward them like Quasimodo in a gold gown, crying, “Sanctuary! Sanctuary!”
Eager monks reached out to catch her as she collapsed in the nave. They helped untangle Mary, who was half-strangled by the cord around her neck. Robyn realized she'd come alarmingly close to hanging the girl, as requested. The monks could hardly hide their glee at having two such interesting fugitives come crashing into sanetuary—far better than the usual run of cutpurses and failed politicians. Sanctuaries were judged by their clientele, and Westminster got all the glamorous sinners, lords on the lam, and great ladies in distress, while Saint Martin's made do with the ne'er-do-wells of London.
As monks unwound the rope halter, an amazed Mary gasped her thanks. “Oh, my God—m'lady, you have saved me.”
Kneeling, Robyn untied the girl's small hands, finding them red and torn from the ropes. “Saint Martin saved you.” She nodded at the cavernous church. “I just got you here.” Saint Martin-le-Grand was the primary sanctuary within the walls of London, and even a murderess with blood on her hands was safe as soon as she crossed the threshold—or better yet threw herself on the altar. God's forgiveness stood above human law. People in the third millennium might say that, but medievals truly believed it, building a huge free base for convicts and escapees just down the street from Newgate prison, right on the execution route. God's forgiveness was always there—sometimes just steps away, if sinners would but take them.
Robyn dropped the bloody rope, smiling at Mary, “I said Heaven would hear you.” Small arms went immediately around Lady Robyn's neck, astonishingly strong for someone so slight. Mary pulled them together, holding tight. After hearing her death sentence read minutes ago without batting an eyelash, Mary suddenly let go, burying her head in a gold shoulder and sobbing like a faucet now that she was safe.
Reaching around to comfort her, Robyn pushed back the whore's hood, stroking the girl's short brown hair, telling Mary she was free to cry; meanwhile robed monks stood watching a lady in a gold riding dress and a girl in a burning smock kneeling together on the big stone church floor. Ignoring the men of God—and the mayhem she'd made of Saint Anne's Day—Robyn took a moment to thank Heaven while holding on to the crying teenager, feeling Mary's fine bones and frail shoulders, overwhelmed by the humanness of the girl she had saved—not caring what came next. Whatever happened now, this was a rare moment of victory, and it needed to be savored and blessed.
By stages the girl's shaking and sobbing subsided; Robyn could feel the thin ribs returning to a normal breathing rhythm. But when Robyn tried to separate herself a bit, Mary clung tighter, clutching the gold fabric, whispering, “Please do not leave me, m'lady. Stay with me, for I have been sore alone.”
She could well imagine—having been in a Tower cell herself, alone and expecting to die—finding it pretty damn awful. But Robyn had at least known Edward was outside, trying to break in, and it had given her a sliver of hope. This girl had been truly alone, in body and soul, with only Heaven to call on. And Saint Anne had answered. Gently Robyn reminded the girl, “You are no longer alone.” Far from it—this was a fairly crowded sanctuary. She nodded to the monks around them. “And these men of God will see you safe.”
Mary looked at the men around them, then back at Robyn, not at all liking the trade. “Must m'lady leave?”
“M'lady must.” She nodded sadly, having left a mess outside she needed to face. Deirdre was in Saxon hands, which made Robyn especially anxious; otherwise, she could have sat for some time in the cool of the church, holding this girl and hearing her story. “But I will see you are well cared for, I swear.”
Looking even more worried, Mary asked, “Will they not be wroth with you for freeing me?”
“Mayhap,” she admitted. “Definitely an angry undersheriff awaits without.”
“Then stay here with me, m'lady,” Mary begged, hugging her tighter, “that we may both be safe.”
She smiled at the girl's concern. “Do not fear—you are but the least of my sins.” Heretics, witches, and traitors had no right to sanctuary—and Robyn was all three. If her enemies meant to take her, no Church could save her. But Mary, a mere murderer, should be tolerably safe in Saint Martin's. Robyn told the girl, “I am a worse sinner than you can ever hope to be, and must face the folks outside.”
“But you will come back.” Mary said it like an unquestioned fact.
“I will come back,” she assured the girl. How could she not? She had saved this teenager's life, and was now responsible for her—the latest addition to her growing circle of dependents.
“When, m'lady?” Mary demanded. Being saved from burning must have made Mary think she could get away with anything.
Robyn knew the feeling. On the night she was freed from the Tower she'd slept with Edward for the first time. Freedom was a heady thing, and the threat of hideous death made one greedy for life. She promised to be back “before the day is out.”
“Good.” Getting the answer she wanted, Mary laid her head back against Robyn's shoulder, still loath to let go. Offered food, shelter, and safety, all the girl cared about was seeing her savior again. Robyn stroked the girl's short hair, which felt fine and silky beneath her fingers, telling Mary how the monks would care for her—swearing to take her case to the earl of March.
“But you will come back,” Mary insisted.
“Before vespers if I can.” But first she must leave—slowly she pried herself free of the girl, at the same time pulling off Mary's striped hood, not wanting to give the sanctuary's denizens unsavory ideas. Folding the hood under her arm, she asked the monks to care for the girl, impulsively offering up her purse as a gift to Saint Martin. “Should she need anything, send for me, Robyn Stafford in Baynards Castle with the household of my lord, the earl of March.”
They nodded knowingly; even monks in their cloisters knew all about her personal affairs, or imagined they did. Luckily, English clergy could be amazingly tolerant of sin. Lords, knights, and sergeants-at-law had threatened her with burning for witchcraft, treason, and being “the earl of March's whore”—but not a single cleric had been so much as uncivil to her, cheerfully offering her food, shelter, and solace whenever she was in need. Sometimes a little too much solace, but that, too, was an act of love.
Untwining the girl's fingers from her dress, she kissed their tips and then turned Mary over to a young nun summoned by the monks. Reluctantly Mary accepted, letting the nun lead her to a woman's cell in the sanctuary—where she would be safe for at least the forty days allowed by law. And forty days could easily be forever in medieval law; especially when you were supposed to be burned before noon.
Straightening up, Robyn was free for the moment, though still surrounded by thieves and murderers, with an angry undersheriff waiting at the door. So much for not daring to “flat-out defy the law.” Sometimes the law left one small choice. Lady Robyn adjusted her headdress, surprised not to have lost it completely; then she walked down the tall nave to kneel before the altar, thanking Saint Martin personally for his mercy. Crossing herself, she rose and went to reclaim her horse, which she left with the killers and cutpurses outside.
At the church door she was greeted by cheers from the assembled outlaws, along with calls of “Welcome to sanctuary!” and “Where did m'lady learn to ride?” Giving them her best Miss Rodeo Montana smile, she strode down the steps with the whore's hood under her arm, getting still more cheers. Sanctuary inmates were shockingly easy to please. Stopping a couple of steps from the bottom, she acknowledged the applause, looking out over ill-shaven faces lit with crooked smiles. Producing a carrot from the folds of her dress, she signed for her horse.
Smiles turned to laughter. Scuffling broke out, but it was swiftly settled, and the winner led Lily over to her. He was a square dark cutthroat, with three days' growth of black stubble on his face and a shifty smile. Heaven knew why he was in sanctuary, but the easy way he upended the opposition and brought Lily out showed he had a deft hand with other people's horses. Going down on one knee, he offered up the reins, saying in broad Northumberland, “Yer mount, m'lady.”
As soon as she heard the northern accent, she knew she had already met this felon; he was a border reiver, a Percy moss-trooper brought south to fight for Mad King Henry. She had seen his swarthy face three weeks ago beneath a steel bonnet on the Sunday before the battle of Northampton, when Lord Egremont's harbingers descended on the village of Hardingstone, and they had chatted briefly at a farmwife's door. Now his lord was dead, and he had lost his helmet and chain-mail shirt, but he still wore Percy colors—russet and yellow. Too bad she lacked Edward's knack for names, for she could not remember this fellow's. Taking the reins, she thanked him in his native Northumberland.
His eyes widened with delight, hearing his home speech so far south of the Tyne. “Then you are indeed she? The bonny lass who spoke so fair to us the Sunday before the battle. When I rode with Fingerless Will, Mary's Jock, Sweet-milk Selby, and Bangtail Bell. I hardly recognized you in yer fine headdress, but I well knew this mare.”
“Her name is Lily,” she told him, stroking the mare's mane as she gave her the carrot. “And you are?”
“Black Dick Nixon,” he replied, bowing low. “At yer ladyship's service.”
Black Dick Nixon, how could she have forgotten that? “What are you here for?”
He grinned at her, “Bad debts, m'lady.”
That she could believe. From the look of him, Black Dick Nixon had left a trail of fines, forfeitures, blackmail, and skipped bail stretching halfway to Scotland. Anyone recruited for loot was bound to have a cavalier attitude toward law and property. “And how long do you have left in sanctuary?”
“Better than a month,” Bad Dick Nixon boasted, happy to have most of his forty days ahead of him.
Two weeks ago, Lord Egremont's northern riders went down to defeat in the brief battle of Northampton, leaving them stranded and penniless among southerners they had come to loot, and landing Black Dick Nixon in sanctuary for unspecified crimes. Stuffing the whore's hood into her saddlebag, she let him help her to mount. Then, having given away her purse, she stripped a ring off her finger—a gold band she bought the day before in Cheapside, with a red stone matching her dress. Handing the ring down to Nixon, she told him, “Keep watch over the lass I brought here, and I will see those debts are paid. Her name is Mary, and mine is Robyn Stafford. I am lodged in Baynards Castle with the household of the earl of March; send for me if anything threatens that girl.”
“Whatever Yer Ladyship desires,” the blackguard promised, deftly kissing her hand. “And I will ask no more than a swift horse and a day's start.”
“That you shall have for sure,” she assured him. What did Black Dick Nixon care if his creditors never got paid? And whatever crimes Nixon had on his conscience probably did not compare to the charges she faced, particularly when it came to lurid penalties. Leaning forward, she patted Lily, telling her, “Good girl, that was a real leap. But we may need to do it again. Be ready to run, and you get another carrot.”
Straightening in the saddle, she saw no sense in putting off the unpleasant. She must see to Deirdre, and Matt Davye, who had come to her aid when she needed it. Twice. Waving good-bye to the assembled inmates, she nudged Lily toward the gate, hearing a chorus of groans from heartbroken desperadoes. “Why so soon, m'lady? You are safer with us in Saint Martin's.”
“True, too true,” she called back, figuring she might need friends in sanctuary. “But I have business without.”
Her heart climbed back in her throat as she headed for the gate. Rank required you to do right, otherwise you were just a genteel parasite, living off the sweat of others. Dame Agnes, a lowly mayor's wife, spent her days letting air and light into the prisons. So how could a countess-to-be see injustice and not act? Her only real regret was not having Edward here with her; his easygoing good humor and sturdy six-foot frame had a soothing effect on folks. Twice she had seen him talk armed and desperate opponents into surrendering, without so much as touching his sword—both times she had been almighty glad to have him at her side. Saying a quiet prayer to Saint Anne, whose day it was, and to Hecate, who had gotten her in this mess, she rode briskly out the sanctuary gate.
Stunned silence greeted her. She saw Dame Agnes standing between Deirdre and the undersheriff—in a heated discussion seconded by armed sergeants and concerned clerics. Still on horseback, Deirdre was saying nothing, holding hard to her saxe knife and playing dumb for the Saxons, letting Dame Agnes do the talking. Matt Davye had disappeared, but the sergeant he tackled was back on his feet, still holding his hideous pole arm. Cheapside shoppers, clerks from Saint Paul's cloisters, and the crowd from Cornhill looked up in surprise as she emerged, her silk headdress high, soft bells jingling on her saddle.
For a long moment folks stared at her, startled by her sudden return. Then cheering erupted, long and loud, spontaneous applause that turned to cries of, “Hay-hay, Hurray! Hay-hay, Hurray!”—growing into a full-throated roar, a standing ovation easily eclipsing the cheers from the men in sanctuary. Her hollow ache vanished, replaced by waves of giddy relief and mounting excitement. London did love her, even above the law. This Saturday crowd of Cheapside shoppers, market women, Saint Paul's clerics, drapers' boys, and drunken sailors sided with her, glad to see Mary in the hands of Mother Church. She had given a surprise ending to the morning's tragedy, a happy miracle that drove the audience wild.
Pressing closer, people patted Lily and plucked at Robyn's gold hem, touching, squeezing, offering up their hands the way they did when the rebel earls first entered the city. Her own love for London's commons welled up, bringing happy tears to her eyes for the first time in this godawful morning. In a weird way these were her people—maybe she was not a medieval, but beneath her silks and satins she was as common as they. From the day she arrived in the Middle Ages common people had welcomed her, especially women and girls, but men, as well—not knowing she was from the future, just knowing she looked cute and lost. Armed nobles and king's men had hounded and threatened her, but from Sandwich to North Wales, ordinary Britons had been nothing but nice to her, feeding her and sheltering her, standing up to the law when they had to—asking only to hear tales of far-off places, or life at Court, or what young Lord Edward was like in bed. Women called to her, waving their brooms triumphantly from upper-floor windows in honor of Saint Anne.
Buoyed by the applause, she rode happily forward, blissfully grateful. In Hollywood she had been a production assistant, wishing she were a star; here she was on center stage in the theater of the world, and London loved her act. Any objections from the undersheriff were drowned out by the crowd, and the knowledge that she enjoyed the earl of March's “good lordship.” Much as she loved the commons, Robyn was thankful rank had its privileges, especially when they rubbed off on her. Reaching down, she touched people's outstretched hands, guiding Lily with her knees through the cheering throng, glad to be so loved, but also anxious to reclaim her maid and saxe knife from a thankful Dame Agnes. She still had a tournament to go to.
 
Copyright © 2003 by R. Garcia y Robertson

Chapter 1
 
Tournament Day
 
Saturday, 26 July 1460, Saint Anne’s Day, Baynards Castle, London
 
Morning, just before prime. Up and dressed ahead of the dawn, I hear cock crows from the city. Way too nervous to sleep. Tournament today in the Smithfield mud, the Middle Ages at its messiest. Collin will ride, maybe Edward. Scary when you think about, so I try not to. I must be the only woman in medieval England who craves a mocha in the morning. Happily, I still have some instant…
 
Robyn stopped typing into her journal, tearing open a foil packet lifted from a restaurant table on her last day in twenty-first-century London. Pouring dark crystals into a china cup, she added boiling water from a kettle, enjoying the warm feel of hand-beaten silver on a cold July morning, making modern magic on her medieval oak table. Coffee aroma filled the chill air of her tower bedroom, covering over the dank musty morning-in-a-castle smell while her toes dug for warmth in a carpet that came by caravan over the Roof of the World. This stormy summer of 1460 was the coldest and rainiest the locals could
remember—as they said in Southwark, “Wetter than a bathhouse wedding.”
When witchcraft first brought her to medieval England—much against her will—Robyn would wake up wondering where she was, thinking she was back in modern Britain. Maybe some weird part of Wales. Or at home in California, waking in a strange bed after a wild Hollywood party. (Where am I? And whose bed am I in?) By now she was no longer shocked to awake in 1460—half a millennium before her birth—but having her own bedroom was a pleasant novelty. Most medievals slept two or more to a bed. But not Lady Robyn Stafford of Holy Wood, the barefoot contessa from Roundup, Montana—she wiggled her toes in triumph.
Lady Robyn had a room of her own, with a wood beam floor, Arabian Nights carpets, a cozy fireplace, and three tall narrow views of medieval London, all in an honest-to-god castle, Baynards Castle: the  white-towered keep set in the southwest corner of the city walls, London headquarters for the House of York. Edward had offered her any room in the family castle, and she picked this one for its fireplace and semiprivacy—it had been a tower guardroom, but now it was all hers, complete with handwoven tapestries and a tall wooden bathtub. Unbelievable—magical, really—especially when her last address had a West Hollywood ZIP code. Three months in the Middle Ages, and she practically owned the place.
So what use was worrying? She tried not to think about the tournament—while planning her Saturday around it. Actually, Saint Anne’s Saturday.
Happily, she had a head start on her morning, being up and looking like Lady Robyn, sitting at her carved oak table in a long red-gold gown with tight scarlet sleeves buttoned by gold wire studs tied in Stafford knots. Very medieval. Right now Robyn was only nominally a lady, and some had harsher names for her, since not everyone liked her having the most popular boyfriend in London. But one day she would be a countess, and eventually a duchess. “Robyn Plantagenet, Duchess of York,” had a heady ring, even for a former Miss Rodeo Montana. Like a witch condemned to the water test, she was thrown into this wet summer of 1460 to sink or swim; three months later, she was doing quite well, thank you. Half a pound of gold went into her gown, and she had warm fresh milk for her coffee, brought to the castle gate that morning by a man with a cow.
Saying a silent prayer to Aurora, goddess of dawn, and to Saint Anne, whose day it was, she took a first hot grateful sip. “Here’s to tournament day, and hoping no one gets hurt. May Mary’s mother save them from their foolishness.”
Her first dry Saturday in who knows how long, and she would spend it in the mud at Smithfield, seeing horsemen crash headlong into each other. All because of Edward, who claimed to love her. Men will make you crazy, if you let them, especially medieval men—but by now she had survived worse, way worse. On her fourth morning in the Middle Ages she had to watch a trial by combat, with herself as the prize. Two men in steel armor fought on horseback and afoot beneath the spreading oaks of Sudeley park, deciding if she should be freed or burned at the stake for witchcraft. Freed or fried, all on the swing of a broadsword, something so incredibly frightening it brought shivers to her in the chill safety of her castle bedroom. How could a Saturday joust in the Smithfield mud hope to compare?
Hearing someone stirring on her big white canopy bed, Robyn called out in Gaelic, “Good morning.”
Deirdre, her Welsh-Irish maid, raised her head from amid the bed linen, the girl’s sleepy smiling face shining in a halo of red hair. “More witches’ brew, m’lady?”
“Want some?” she raised the cup to entice her maid out of bed. At sixteen—“or thereabouts”—Deirdre liked to sleep in. And last night’s supper had ended in an impromptu Saint Anne’s Eve ball, where grooms, serving girls, young lords, and spirited ladies danced to live music under the stars, a Welsh harp, several drunk fiddlers, and tiny cymbals on the women’s fingers sending music out onto the dark streets of London. Half the castle had to be sleeping late this Saint Anne’s Day.
“Oh, please yes, m’lady.” Green eyes went wide with anticipation. Introduced to caffeine only a week ago, Deirdre was already an addict.
“If you come get it,” Robyn coaxed her sleepy maid, holding out the cup. When they were alone, or feared being overheard, she used her maid’s language. Before coming here, Robyn barely knew Gaelic existed; now she spoke it with Deirdre’s Wexford accent as easily as she spoke Latin. Or medieval French. Or Walloon. The spell that brought her here from modern England displaced her “in body and soul, to breathe the air, drink the water, and speak the speech.” Whatever anyone said made immediate sense, and she answered back, be it in Greek or Gaelic. A handy knack, in fact her most useful magical talent. The spell had not brought her here to harm her or strand her among uncomprehending strangers, so it could not have worked otherwise. Witchcraft was like that—intent mattered as much as technique. In fact, the spell was not even meant for her, per se, having been aimed at Edward; making her a fairly innocent bystander.
Deirdre wormed her way down to the foot of the tall canopied bed, still wrapped in Robyn’s down comforter. Without getting out of the covers, the teenager leaned over and kissed her mistress good morning; then she took the coffee, sipping greedily. Castles were cold in the morning, even July mornings, and Deirdre slept mother-naked in summer.
“Ummm!” Deirdre murmured, “What makes it so sweet?”
“Chocolate,” she explained, wishing she had brought back more. “Comes from the seeds of the cocoa tree in America.”
“America must be amazing, if this is what grows on trees.”
“Most amazing,” Robyn agreed, watching her redheaded bed worm drink—knowing Deirdre lumped all her America stories together, imagining the pre-Columbian United States inhabited by Indians cruising the Internet in SUVs, eating chocolate out of trees. Picked up during Robyn’s one-day stay in Ireland, Deirdre was a cheerful Welsh-Irish bastard, determined to get as far as guts and talent could take her. Quick with languages, the girl was alternatively talkative and dreamy, her head full of teenage lust and fairy tales, believing in true love, pixies, leprechauns, and birds born from barnacles. Happily doing chores for pennies a day and a chance to sleep out of the rain, Deirdre was fairly useless as a lady’s maid, but a godsend nonetheless. Despite their vast differences in rank, age, and nationality—not to mention coming from different millennia—Robyn and her maid were soul mates, exiles forced to live by other people’s rules. Deirdre saw it at once, going straight from serving girl to lady’s companion and sometime partner in crime, the first member of Lady Robyn Stafford’s household-to-be.
It said much about the Middle Ages that her Welsh-Irish maid got more use out of the big feather bed than she did—in part because Robyn was newly betrothed to a teenage sex maniac—but mostly because the Middle Ages was one grand game of musical beds. Deirdre normally slept on the floor, moving up to the bed when her mistress slept in the master bedroom or went visiting. Noble households could be incredibly nomadic. Since coming here, Robyn had slept in palaces on silk sheets, in open fields and rain-soaked tents, in churches and nunneries, in shepherds’ rests and dungeon cells—a great succession of beds, not all as clean as they could be—sharing them with everyone from an imprisoned witch-child to an amorous young earl.
Prime bells sounded, calling Baynards Castle to chapel. Deirdre surrendered the coffee, smiling mischievously. “Today is tournament day. Will Lord Edward ride?”
“Mayhap.” She did not like to think of Edward hurling himself at another heavily armored horseman, not even in fun. Fortunately, her true love was impetuous but not foolhardy. Most days at least.
Deirdre grinned at her, warm and snug, happy to be “far and away” sharing her magical adventure on this fairy isle with its feather beds and dark, sweet potions. “Mayhap my Lord Edward of March has ridden himself full out already this morning?”
Grabbing a big feather pillow from the bed, Robyn swatted her maid, saying, “No wonder Saxons hang the wild Irish out of hand.”
“The wild godless Irish,” Deirdre giggled from beneath the pillow. Last time Robyn roomed with a teenager was in
college—but in some ways the Dark Ages were like one long sleepover, sans CDs or VCRs, with no privacy and nothing to do but play dress-up and gossip about each other’s sex lives, while prepping for pop quizzes in medieval history. Deirdre stuck her red head out from under the bedding, begging for details. “Well, has he, then?”
“No! My Lord Edward of March has not ‘ridden’ this morning. I left him fast asleep, another young lie-abed like you.” Edward thoroughly enjoyed last night’s dancing, and would sleep past morning Mass—too bad he would not sleep through the tournament too. She swatted her maid again. Born and brought up in a family bed—listening to her parents making more siblings—Deirdre was a shameless bastard child, demanding in on everything. “Come! Up with you!” Robyn commanded, ordering her “household” out of bed. “Get your naked heathen body up and dressed for chapel—or I shall surely have the Saxons hang you.”
“More witches’ brew first,” Deirdre insisted, showing why the Irish made such hopeless servants. Deirdre knew her mistress from the far future was an uncommonly soft touch, with no heart to turn her out, or even to see her beaten. Having stumbled onto an amazingly good thing, Deirdre made the most of it, mixing willful disobedience and deathless devotion. Robyn handed up the cup, keeping her maid occupied while she typed in her journal.
* * *
Make that the only woman out of her teens who craves chocolate and caffeine. Deirdre is definitely hooked. Prime already, have to run. More later…
* * *
She hit save. Closing her electronic journal, she tucked it in an inner pocket in her flowing red-gold gown. Medieval women had a hundred places to hide things on their person, a huge advance over tight jeans and a halter top. Aside from her digital watch, her journal was the only bit of consumer electronics she’d brought with her—all that remained of the high-tech third millennium. That plus a thermos flask, some small lighters and flashlights, and her precious stock of pain pills, antibiotics, tampons, batteries, chocolate, and toilet paper. Real medieval musts, doled out sparingly, like her supply of coffee—four more foil packets and five pounds of drip grind. That was almost all she brought with her from the twenty-first century, unless you counted things like her VISA card—which got her out of Berkeley Castle by lifting the dungeon door latch from inside but was otherwise fairly useless. Slipping on her crimson slippers, she dressed Deirdre in red-gold Stafford livery, then led her maid down to the castle’s ornate chapel to pray—still worried for Edward, sleeping away on his white-and-gold canopy bed.
Today was Saint Anne’s Day. Mary’s mother. Jesus’ grandmother. Going down on her knees, Robyn begged Mary’s mother for her blessing and guidance on this, her day, and in the days to come. She beseeched Saint Anne to keep the contestants safe in the coming tourney and to specifically keep Edward, earl of March, out of the lists completely. Amen.
Her prayers were utterly heartfelt. Morning prayer was compulsory, but that was no reason to waste it. Three months in the Middle Ages had made a believer out of her. Religion was everywhere here: in people’s hearts, thoughts, and daily deeds, in the songs she sang, in the air she breathed. Before coming here, she had not so much as heard of Saint Anne. Now she absolutely believed in Saint Anne and in the miracles Saint Anne could do. She had seen the miracles. Sounds crazy? You literally had to be here.
For Saint Anne was also Hecate, the witch goddess. God’s grandmother, the pagan death crone. The Mother’s mother. Goddess of death and rebirth. Which was why Saint Anne’s symbol was a witch’s broom. Whether you called her Saint Anne, or Hecate, or Lilith, her power had brought Robyn to the Middle
Ages—to stubbornly deny that miracle would do her no good.
Crossing herself, she took Communion; not for the first time in the Middle Ages breaking her fast with the body of Christ. Another medieval miracle.
Then off to Smithfield. Putting herb tea and burnt toast on top of the Blessed Sacrament, she ordered her white mare saddled, along with Deirdre’s chestnut gelding. Her bullion-trimmed gown was hopeless on horseback, but she had a gold riding dress and a tight sleeveless crimson jacket given to her the day she arrived in medieval England—Sir Collingwood Grey would see what good use she got of them. She added pearls at her throat and a horned headdress with silk streamers trailing almost to the ground; being a lady in London meant looking the part. Little silver bells rang on her saddle bow as she rode out of Baynards Castle with Deirdre in tow. Hidden beneath her dress folds was a heavy double-edged saxe knife, tucked in a leather sheath sewn to her saddle—this was, after all, the Middle Ages.
Beggars waited by the castle gate, baring their stumps and sores, crying, “Have pity, m’lady. Please have pity.”
How could she not? She had silver pennies ready in her purse, and she leaned in the saddle to pass them out, along with words of good cheer, getting beggars’ blessings in return. Expecting to see hordes of beggars in the Middle Ages, Robyn was surprised to find most medievals had jobs, or plots of land to work, leaving little time to go begging. Those who did so took the task seriously—going straight to the gates of the wealthy or the steps of cathedrals. Prime spots were like handicap parking spaces, and gate tolls for the rich to pay. She gladly gave out the pennies, paying her debt to poverty with an open heart, thanking Heaven to have escaped such suffering. Three months ago she arrived here alone and friendless, and she could have ended up a penniless cripple or worse, instead of a countess-to-be. She was luckier than they, infinitely luckier, and every morning she gave thanks, sharing a little of her luck.
Blind and maimed faces smiled back at her, enthusiastically calling out gap-toothed blessings, not blaming her in the least for being healthy and pretty and for riding a beautiful white mare. None of which was her doing anyway—health and good looks were God’s fault, and Lily was a gift from Edward, given to her when they were in Calais. So was Deirdre’s chestnut gelding, Ainlee—named for a line in the sagas:
 
Tall Ainlee bearing a load on his back…
 
Most medievals did not blame her for her good fortune, believing that Heaven’s mercy must be arbitrary and undeserved, or else it would be justice—not mercy.
Thanking the beggars for their blessings, she straightened in the saddle, trotting on into the city. Baynards Castle stood beside the river on Upper Thames
Street—between Blackfriars and Saint Paul’s Wharf. Emerging from the castle gatehouse, she saw the river docks jammed by horse drays and cursing stevedores while huge cranes swung casks of Spanish wine out of a caravel blown by the wind from Cádiz to her castle door. Men called out, “Wage! Wage!” and “Go we hence!” to boatmen plying the slack tide above London Bridge, while a nearby cog unloaded dirt from the Holy Land, used for church foundations and for filling graves. She loved how the city hit you, a wall of sights and sounds, beggars with their hands out, boatmen doing business amid barges reeking of offal and spices, making her feel like Queen Alice riding through the looking-glass world “of shoes—and ships—and sealing wax—/ of cabbages—and kings.”
Sailors waved, shouting ribald greetings that Lady Robyn did not return. Veering away from the traffic jam on Thames Street, she urged Lily up Ludgate Hill, with Deirdre close behind her, headed for the massive pile of Saint Paul’s, which towered above the city walls, its gold-tipped steeple thrust fifty stories into the sky, a stone spear aimed straight at God. In the churchyard beneath, lawyers consulted with cutpurses while visiting clerics ranted against the sinful city and Cock Lane whores loitered patiently, ready to give sinners something to confess. Lacking TV and newspapers, medievals made do with reality, living life on display, a perpetual live-action pageant-cum-morality play with faith, toil, pomp, and poverty all playing parts in the daily drama. Priests proclaimed God’s word at Saint Paul’s Cross, competing with street musicians and bakers’ touts. Criminals sat pelted in the stocks or begged alms from cell windows. Artisans worked before their customers. Love offered herself brazenly for sale. Shakespeare would not be born for a hundred years, but this was the world his metaphors came from: “All the world’s a stage, / And all the men and women merely players.…”
Back home in Hollywood, Robyn had ached for a starring role, and now she had one, in this real-time theater in the round—Lady Robyn Stafford, countess-to-be and friend of the king—she could hardly complain at the casting.
She paused to admire the huge cruciform cathedral—having become a connoisseur of churches—the Middle Ages being pretty much made for them. In Manhattan, even cathedrals could look small, squatting beneath skyscrapers, but Old Saint Paul’s reared over packed rooftops the way a cathedral should, braced by flying buttresses and studded with crosses, a huge hymn to Heaven sculpted out of glass and stone. And Robyn was the only person from her time to see it—Old Saint Paul’s would burn in the Great Fire of 1666, two hundred years in “the future.”
Ignoring cook’s boys crying, “Kidney pie!” or “Hot sheeps’ feet! Cheap!” she checked her watch—10:12:17 a.m.—deciding to dawdle. Tournament time was not until noon; nor was she in a rush to get there. Instead of going straight out Ludgate to Smithfield, she set off the long way around, down Watling Street to Newgate, drawing greetings from the doorways to drapers’ shops. Serving women stopped work to wave and smile, leaning out of upper-story windows to get a look at her
gown—which cheered her immensely. She returned the greetings merrily, to show that seeing into the future and sleeping with an earl did not make her snooty. Lord Edward’s witchy lady was genuinely popular in London, almost from the moment the city opened her gates to the rebel earls and she rode in behind Edward. Three weeks ago on the fourth of July, diehard lords holding the Tower of London threw wildfire onto East Cheap, setting fires and sowing terror. Riding into Cheapside to return a missing child, she promised Edward would bring King Henry back to London and retake the Tower. Her offhand prophecy came true—partly by her doing—sealing her reputation as a seeress, a white witch with London’s good at heart. She heard an apprentice boy shout, “Look, ’tis Lord Edward’s lovely strumpet. Gawd, I would I were him.”
British boys did not lack ambition. And she loved dirty old London back, despite the appalling sights and smells. This was the Middle Ages at its most magical, when one could personally right wrongs and see justice done, then get grateful thanks. She risked her life to return the king to London, free the Tower, and bring down Lord Scales—suffering mightily to do it. For which she deserved a single tower room, a white mare, a few outrageous outfits, a dreamy teenage maid, and a rich boyfriend. At least most Londoners thought so, and who was she to argue?
Deirdre bought a branch of cherries from a fruiterer, offering her some. “Cherries, m’lady?” Seeing they were unwashed, Robyn ate a couple, figuring cherries off the branch were safer than the tainted water used to wash them—and she never need worry about industrial pollutants or insecticides.
“More, m’lady?” Her maid hopefully held out another handful. One of Deirdre’s duties was to force doubtful food on her picky mistress—notorious for demanding boiled water and thorough cooking.
“Too tart.” She shook her head. “With all this rain, they have not sweetened.” Green cherries for sale were a bad sign; maybe all they would see of this summer’s crop. Deirdre finished off the branch, enjoying a teenager’s appetite, eating like a plow horse but never looking worse than “shapely.”
Turning at Bow Lane, she passed the parish church of Saint Mary le Bow—one of her favorites. The Bow Bell sounded the
nine-o’clock curfew, and the hours of the night along with Saint Bride’s, Saint Giles without Cripplegate, and All Hallows Barking. When she was a girl growing up in Montana, her father read her the story of Dick Whittington, who traded his cat for a fortune and won the hand of his true love—it was the Bow Bell that called Dick back to London when he despaired, promising to make him lord mayor. Like London Bridge, this little Cheapside church was a place out of a fairy tale that had come alive for her.
And like Joan of Arc, Mary le Bow was a secret reference to Diana, the witch goddess with the moon bow. Robyn’s coven name was Diana, and one of Mary le Bow’s parishioners, Beth Lambert, the ten-year-old daughter of a Cheapside alderman, was her sister-initiate. As she passed, she said a silent prayer to her secret namesake, Hecate’s granddaughter, the virgin huntress, protector of women and children.
Hearing low piping, she urged Lily forward, saying, “Let’s see what’s happening.” Medievals used music when they wanted to make noise—using trumpets for loudspeakers, and pipes and bells for sirens—a most pleasant practice. She emerged on West Cheap, London’s great market street running from Newgate to the center of town. Called Cheapside—or simply the Street—West Cheap was the medieval Rodeo Drive, reputedly the richest thoroughfare in Christendom, lined with gold- and silversmiths, clothiers and tapestry dealers. Venetians confessed that all the cities in Italy could not match the array of handwrought silver found along Cheapside. Absolutely the perfect spot for a slow Saturday morning ride, taking her mind off the coming tournament.
Her happy mood evaporated as soon as she saw the source of the music. Robyn halted, instantly sorry she went this way, wishing she had gone straight out Ludgate to Smithfield. Down the street marched a dismal parade led by pipers, constables, an undersheriff, and a herald in city colors—escorting a wretched prisoner to punishment. Behind them walked a teenage waif with short ragged hair, sad brown eyes, and dirty bare feet, her neck in a rope halter, her small hands tied behind her. Her homespun tunic had the striped hood of a prostitute. Seeing the poor bound girl led past the Cheap-side goldsmith shops by gaily dressed men in padded doublets summed up just about all Robyn’s misgivings about the Middle Ages.
Her heart went out to this child hauled along by a hard-faced pack of men. Many medieval women were little, but this one was tiny, looking barely old enough to have sex, much less wear a whore’s hood. Excited boys followed her, aiming to see her punished, maybe hoping to lend a hand. At least no one was jeering. Medieval justice could be ugly; a month ago in Sandwich, Robyn saw a thief nailed to a post by his ear. Given a knife to cut himself free, the felon stood nerving himself for the deed as she rode past—medieval jurisprudence at its most picturesque. Deirdre drew rein beside her, asking blandly, “Which way, m’lady?”
Which way, indeed? All hope of a thoughtless shopping spree vanished. Sunny Saint Anne’s Day had suddenly darkened. Just up the street was Saint Paul’s churchyard, and across from it London’s chief sanctuary, Saint Martin-le-Grand—a haven for thieves, murderers, and political refugees. Farther along lay Newgate and the city walls, and beyond that Smithfield. This unhappy procession was headed the other way, down Cheapside toward the stock and poultry markets, deeper into the city.
And she had to follow. She had not hung around to see that thief in Sandwich cut his ear off, but this girl was different, with her child’s eyes and tearstained cheeks. Robyn could not just leave her to whatever these men devised. She told Deirdre, “This way,” turning to join the sad parade down Cheapside.
Deirdre understood at once, deftly steering her gelding to follow her gold-and-scarlet lady down the street. Her maid might sleep in, and have to be dressed most mornings, but Deirdre was smart, brave, and incredibly loyal, trusting no one but her mistress amid all these mad Saxons. Warily she switched to Gaelic, asking, “What will they do to her?”
“I do not know,” Robyn admitted. Aside from twitchy subjects like heresy, witchcraft, and treason, laws here and now were not much worse than at home. Torture and animal testimony were frowned on, and women had surprisingly many rights—even though the laws were made and administered by men. Laws on whoring were better than most. Instead of criminalizing harlots, London tried to keep them out of the city, in Cock Lane in Smithfield, or across the river in Southwark, where the kindhearted Bishop Waynflete saw that his “Winchester Geese” were not confined to baths and brothels but had their own
homes—keeping men from living off the earnings or prostituting their wives. “I do not think they will hurt her,” she told Deirdre. “They probably mean to humiliate her, then march her to Cock Lane.”
Her maid looked dubious, pointing out, “Cock Lane is in the other direction.”
Which it was, back behind them, beyond the city walls, between Newgate and Smithfield. Robyn sighed, admitting, “They may want to pillory her too.”
Deirdre did not reply, having a healthy Irish dread of English justice. Both maid and mistress felt instant sympathy for any woman abused over sex, knowing their own personal lives and pedigrees could not stand much critical scrutiny. Robyn herself rode a fine white mare and wore a gold dress, gifts from an earl and a knight, both of whom she had made love to—only luck, poetic license, and a lot of romantic derring-do separated Lady Robyn from this girl being led along on a rope.
Green odors came from the grocers’ shops on Bucklersbury Lane, mixed with the smell of soap and spices. Robyn saw the bound bedraggled girl gaze longingly toward the Great Conduit, where spring water was piped in from Paddington, looking back as the rope pulled her past. Plainly the child was thirsty. Luckily Robyn never left the castle without clean bottled water in her saddlebag; her problem was getting it to the prisoner. She had more silver pennies in her purse, as well, and five gold nobles each worth a week’s wages, not much for a bribe, but it might pay a fine. Her current popularity also counted for something—medieval London was still a fairly small town, with small-town notions of justice. Who you were, and who you knew, mattered a lot. But she never planned putting her popularity on the line for some unknown teenage prostitute. Up to now she had just been enjoying her celebrity.
Silver bells rang softly on her saddle as she entered the dark heart of the city, which was poorer, dirtier, and packed with ordinary folks. Cheapside became the Poultry, cutting though the Stocks Market, a mass of open-air stalls for poulters, butchers, fishmongers, and secondhand dealers—the narrow crowded gut of London, where hen-wives came to sell their eggs and burglars unloaded their loot. Ahead lay Cornhill, the city’s bread basket. Glad to see no one gathering offal and spoiled eggs from the stalls, Robyn tried to judge the mood of the crowd. When she first arrived, she feared the medievals would be stupid and
cruel—and some exceeded her expectations wonderfully—but most were incredibly friendly, cheerfully enduring appalling hardships, happily sharing their pittance with her. Yet these same pious, friendly folks gladly took the law in their hands, and not just to fling filth at some wretch in the stocks. When Edward and Warwick gave the lord constable a safe conduct in exchange for surrendering the Tower, London boatmen beat his lordship to death for daring to throw fire on East Cheap. Happily the mood today seemed more somber; no one looked to hurt this girl—the law would see to that.
Seeing a woman walking ahead of her in a flowing green velvet gown along with a lady’s maid in matching livery, Robyn urged Lily forward, catching up as they climbed Cornhill. Introducing herself to the startled matron, she discovered this was Dame Agnes Forster, wife of a wealthy fishmonger and former mayor. White haired, with that prematurely aged look much in vogue here and now, Dame Agnes turned out to be another medieval surprise, a prison reformer, busy building an addition to Ludgate prison “for the better sort of felons, debtors, and shopkeepers taken with stolen goods—well embattled, but with large fair walks where prisoners may take their ease.” Dame Agnes pleaded with her, “Will you help this girl? I did talk with her in Newgate, and believe her to be both godly and innocent.”
Robyn promised to do what she could. “I have money to pay a fine, but I feared they would put her in the pillory.”
“Fine? Pillory?” Dame Agnes looked quizzically up at her, clutching her rosary beads; like everyone else hereabouts, Dame Agnes was a Catholic. “This girl is to be burned.”
“Burned?” Shock washed over Robyn like ice water, freezing her in the saddle. “What do you mean?”
“Burned alive at the stake,” Dame Agnes explained patiently, as if Lady Robyn might be somehow unacquainted with the custom. “At Tyburn within the hour.”
“What in Heaven for?” Her first thought was witchcraft, but she did not say so aloud. Being a future sorceress herself, she hated getting people thinking in that direction, especially when the law was at hand, with women already in custody.
“Murder,” replied Dame Agnes as simply as if it made sense.
“Murder?” The girl was not big enough to assault a mouse.
“That is what the law called it, and no one spoke for her. Is it true you know the king?” asked Dame Agnes, who clearly knew her reputation.        
Robyn nodded silently. She had indeed eaten off the royal plate and spent an uncomfortable half hour in King Henry’s tent, waiting to see who won the battle of Northampton. Poor Mad King Henry liked her, and he was another notorious soft touch who hated seeing harm done or women abused. But Henry was in Westminster—by the time she got there and back this girl would be burnt.
“And my lord, the earl of March?” Dame Agnes added hopefully, hinting that Robyn’s noble paramour might help.
She nodded again. Edward was a far better bet than King Henry: more attentive, decisive, and eager to act—but even harder to find. He was meeting that morning with the Nevilles, then would be headed for Westminster himself, planning to be back at Smithfield by noon. At the moment Edward could be anywhere between Warwick Street and Westminster. His crisp way of getting things done made him nearly impossible to catch, as Edward’s enemies learned to their cost.
“Surely Lord Edward would listen if you begged to spare this girl,” Dame Agnes suggested, seemingly well acquainted with Lady Robyn’s love life. Lacking paparazzi and tabloid TV, Londoners had to observe romance among the rich and famous firsthand. Nor did pious Dame Agnes balk at using sin to save a soul. British practicality easily triumphed over Church dogma.
“He would,” Robyn agreed, tightening her headdress before going into action. “If we could but find him in time.” Seeing Dame Agnes looking downcast, nervously telling her beads, she advised the old woman, “Have courage, and pray to Saint Anne. This is her day, and she will not see it sullied.” And Hecate’s day, as well. Privately Robyn begged the goddess of death not to take the child. No rich, powerful, good-intentioned man was going to save this girl—that would be up to her and Deirdre. And Hecate. And Dame Agnes, if the former Mrs. Mayor was game for it.
Parade’s end came at Cornhill, London’s grain market, where citizens bought big, carted-in country loaves and drew water piped from Tyburn through “The Tun Upon Cornhill.” Atop the Tun sat a cage full of drunks and nightwalkers snared by the city watch; nearby stocks held an egg-spattered apothecary, his crooked weights hanging around his neck. Medieval justice was relentlessly public—going beyond courtroom TV to audience participation. Crime must hide, but law was there for all to see, and even take part in. Far from being bashful about burning this girl, they piped her through the heart of the city to proclaim her guilt right at the bread counter of this huge open-air shopping mall.
Sellers and buyers stopped to stare at the small scared convict brought for sentencing. Bright solid colors made a London mob look like a walking tarot deck, ready to reveal this girl’s fate. Women in the crowd clumped around Robyn and Dame Agnes, drawn by a lady’s presence, taking this chance to stand near one of the new stars in the noble soap opera that passed for national politics. Robyn’s own gaze stayed on the girl. On Saturday, “foreign” butchers from the countryside set up their blocks in Cornhill before stalls full of livestock, letting customers select animals for slaughter. It was heartbreaking to see the barefoot girl standing with her hands bound behind her, unself-consciously studying the doomed pigs. Every so often her brown eyes turned toward the Tun, and her pink tongue licked at parched lips.
Burning this child was one thing, but making her stand near a fountain, aching to drink, was needlessly cruel. Reaching into her saddlebag, Robyn found the squeeze bottle of boiled water; then with a silent nod to Deirdre, she rode out from amid the knot of women, bells jiggling softly on her saddle. Parting the men with her horse, she reined in right before the thirsty girl. Guards looked questioningly at their betters. Sitting up in the saddle, she spoke loudly to the undersheriff: “Please to God, let me give her water. Worse criminals than her walk free—and we all have unpunished sins on our conscience.”
Searching the silent crowd for friends, she recognized only one man, Matt Davye, no longer wearing Duke Holland’s livery—but his bluff alert features were unmistakable. Ironically he was one of the guards who held her and Joanna Grey prisoner in the Tower, and someone for whom her words should have real meaning. Matt Davye had felt pity for his prisoners, bringing them food, blankets, and words of hope—this good deed kept Matt Davye from standing trial before Earl Warwick in the Guildhall when the rest of Duke Holland’s men were condemned. But did Matt Davye know his mercy had saved him? And what difference would it make to him if he did?
Ashamed, the undersheriff signaled for his sergeants to step back. Unscrewing the plastic squirt cap, Robyn gave the girl a drink straight from the bottle. Gulping greedily, head tilted back, eyes closed, and hands tied behind her, the prisoner let cool clean water flow down her slim throat. Finally, the girl paused to breathe, looking up at her and saying softly, “Thank you, m’lady.”
She nodded, holding the bottle level with the girl’s lips, knowing the child would want more, asking, “What is your name?”
“Mary, m’lady,” the girl replied, doing a polite bobbing curtsy without taking her gaze off the bottle.
Named for the Virgin; that made it perfect. She gave Mary more water, making sure the girl drank her fill. When the girl was done, Robyn asked, “How old are you?”
Mary wiped her lips on her shoulder and thought for a moment. “Fifteen—or so.”
Medievals were often unsure of their age, and they were not bashful about trying teenagers as adults. Edward, her betrothed, was condemned to death for treason at seventeen—a sentence still not officially lifted. And Joan of Arc was burned at nineteen. But both Joan and Edward had asked for it, putting on armor and leading rebellions against Mad King Henry. Robyn could not believe this girl’s offenses were anywhere near that grave, asking, “Did you kill anyone?”
“No, m’lady.” Mary said it easily, without hesitation, as though politely answering an adult’s question that had little to do with her predicament.
Robyn screwed the plastic cap back on and slipped the squeeze bottle into her saddlebag, unsure of what to do next. Send Deirdre to find Edward? No way—not enough time, and far too chancy. Do that, and she was sure to end up wishing Deirdre were with her. Plead Mary’s case to these men? Another waste of time. Without the power to pardon her, all they could do was stubbornly haul Mary to Tyburn and carry out the sentence. Medievals could be sticklers for doing the right thing—especially when it was all wrong. Nor would they relent just because her boyfriend was the earl of March. Gripped with a sick feeling, Robyn somehow had to stop this. Seeing men burn this grave, serious girl would surely drive her mad.
Mary made a soft sound to get her attention, asking shyly, “If it pleases m’lady, could I but beg a favor?”
Robyn nodded slowly, saying, “If I can, I will.” She hated to sound grudging, but she had to be careful of what she promised. As a known seeress and not too secret witch, she had to be wary of flat-out defying the law.
Leaning closer, balancing on her bare toes, Mary whispered her request. “Please have them hang me, m’lady. For I sorely fear the fire.”
Who did not? But the matter-of-fact way Mary put it tore at Robyn’s heart. She had been near to where this girl stood, accused of treason and witchcraft, waiting beneath the oaks of Sudeley park to see if she would be saved or burned—but there at least she’d had a champion, and a fighting chance. Mary had neither, making simple hanging seem a blessing. She searched the men’s faces for someone to listen to her pleas, to be Mary’s champion, and still saw no one she knew but Matt Davye, who’d only lately escaped the gallows himself. Where were are all those handsome knights-errant when you needed them? Some of the best would be breaking lances at Smith-field this afternoon, but Mary would be ashes by then. She forced herself to smile for the girl, saying gently, “I will see what I can do.”
“Thank you, m’lady.” The girl smiled back up at her. “I would have twelve hangings before one burning.” Medievals well knew a person could be hanged more than once; public executions were sometimes taken on the road, with repeat performances in various cities. Mary did another bobbing hands-bound curtsy, buoyed by the hope of being hanged.
Unrolling his scroll, the herald in city colors turned his face to one side, opening his mouth like a trumpet, blasting out words that reached the back of the crowd. Robyn stayed with the girl while sentence was read, hearing Mary called a harlot and murderer, guilty of fornication, incest, and manslaughter—leading a brief life so steeped in sin it could be cleansed only by fire. Medievals would be apalled by the secretive hospital-cum-assembly-line executions held at home, believing punishment must be brutal and public. Secret executions were the tool of tyrants afraid to do their deeds in daylight. Also a terrible waste—what was learned from a tragedy no one saw? Rejecting modern one-size-fits-all justice, medievals had degrees of capital punishment, and Mary’s most heinous crime was domestic treason—according to the herald, the man she killed was both her stepfather and her husband. Burning was saved for hardened rebels against nature, like heretics who denied God—and wives who murdered their husbands.
Smooth and smug as the jack of hearts, the herald finished off by begging God’s mercy and declaring the sentence to be carried out this day at Tyburn. Guards moved to separate the girl from Robyn, and Mary started to look scared, tears welling in her eyes, saying, “Please do not leave, m’lady. Tell them I must hang.”
Reaching down from the saddle, Robyn laid her hand on the girl’s small shoulder, feeling fine bones through the thin fabric. Mary calmed immediately, murmuring thanks and kissing “m’lady’s” fingers. For a long moment Robyn sat there saying a secret prayer to Hecate and Saint Anne, letting the girl draw courage from her presence. Then reluctantly she removed her hand, turning the girl over to the priest-confessor, saying, “Do not fear, I will go with you. Heaven will protect you.”
Heaven had better hurry, because these men meant to burn her. Holding down a hollow ache, Robyn turned to rejoin Deirdre and saw that the formerly silent crowd was weeping. Men’s eyes were wet, and women sobbed quietly. Medievals saw suffering aplenty—even the rich and beautiful must kneel to a tortured Christ and pass beggars at the castle gate—but who could not be moved by Mary’s plight? At absolute worst Mary killed a man who married his teenage stepdaughter in order to abuse and pimp her—more cause for a medal than for burning. Small wonder taking her to Tyburn was put on an undersheriff and some sergeants. No one felt good about this. No one but the law—which had a killing and a “murderess,” and meant to make the most of it. Law had not changed a lot in five-hundred-odd years, except to get less squeamish. Instead of hiding its mistakes in clogged courts and lengthy appeals, medieval law would march Mary back up Cheapside and out Newgate, to Tyburn, where the wood and stake were waiting, playing sad music all the way.
Which left justice pretty much up to Lady Robyn. How horribly unfair. She got up this morning, not meaning to help anyone except Edward—stopping him from riding in his silly tournament. Had she resisted the urge to shop and put things off, she could be in Smithfield right now, having a so-so morning preparing for the joust. When she finally heard about Mary’s fate, she would have been perfectly horrified, saying a prayer for the poor sinner and then going on with her day. Only it was not her day—obviously—it was Saint Anne’s.
Turning about, the sad procession headed back down Cornhill through the stock markets. Medieval law took the “last mile” literally. Riding a couple of horse lengths behind the condemned, Robyn felt her stomach tighten. Thankfully, she had nothing in her but burned toast, a pair of green cherries, and the Communion wafer. She felt totally pure. Which was good—since Mary plainly needed a miracle, and needed it now. Three months in the Middle Ages had taught Robyn that miracles never happened on their own. Heaven always had a helping hand. Feeling under her gold dress folds, she checked her saxe knife, sliding off the leather loop holding it in the saddle sheath. Given to her by a Welsh witch, the big knife was razor sharp and ready.
Defying the law could cost her everything: position, comfort, her proposed marriage, her promised duchy, even her life. But she asked Saint Anne to show her the way, and here was Heaven’s answer, “Make yourself useful.” Living in a castle, being betrothed to a handsome boy on the Royal Council, having a fine white mare to ride—it all came at a cost. At home in West Hollywood, horrible things happened to teenage prostitutes, but there she did nothing aside from feeling sorry and afraid. Here she lacked that luxury. She was Lady Robyn Stafford, beloved of an earl and friend to the king; if she could do nothing for this child, who could? Letting Mary be dragged off and burned made a mockery of noblesse oblige—not to mention the rebel claim to be building a better England. Having accepted the rewards of running the country, Robyn had to take the risks, as well.
Drawing her heavy knife, she signed to Deirdre, and her maid was alongside her at once. Handing Deirdre the saxe knife, she made sure their hands touched, drawing strength from the warm contact, whispering in Gaelic, “Be ready.”
Deirdre understood, deftly palming the big knife. Never pretending to trust Saxon justice, Deirdre had her skirts tucked and her palfrey ready. For somone so excitable, her maid could be amazingly cool in a crisis, anticipating trouble and awaiting her moment. No matter how bad things got, a Wexford girl had seen worse. Much worse.
The Poultry turned back into Cheapside, with its drapers’ shops and silversmiths. Ahead she could see Saint Paul’s and the sanctuary of Saint Martin-le-Grand, and beyond them Newgate, and the road to Tyburn. Finish line in sight, she summoned up her courage, clutching sweat-soaked reins, her legs gripping her saddle leather. The former Miss Rodeo Montana, her heart in her throat, was ready to ride. At Mary’s age, she had ridden before roaring crowds at breakneck speeds, becoming a blue-ribbon barrel racer, before she fell and broke her leg. Beyond the sanctuary of Saint Martin-le-Grand, she saw the barred windows of Newgate, where Mary’s day had begun. Prisoners would be watching the procession, some undoubtedly awaiting their own trip to Tyburn.
Time to give the shut-ins a show. She leaned forward in the saddle, saying a silent prayer to Hecate and Saint Anne, then calling to Deirdre in Gaelic, “Cut the rope.”
Deirdre bolted past her, blade in hand, riding like an Irish Comanche, legs tucked, head down, red hair streaming behind her. Bowling aside surprised sergeants, the serving girl drew rein, seizing the long dangling rope tying Mary to the undersheriff ahead. Looping it around the double-edged blade, Deirdre jerked hard, slicing the loop.
Spurring Lily, Robyn shot after her maid, pounding down the path Deirdre cleared, leaning low in the saddle, silk flapping on her headdress. As the line parted, Robyn scooped up the bound girl, then did a barrel-racing turn, and headed for the gateway of Saint Martin-le-Grand with Mary tucked across her lap. Dodging startled spectators, she made for the open gate, bells ringing madly on her saddle, showing surprised Londoners how Miss Rodeo Montana could ride. Mary stared up at her, wide-eyed in wonder, her striped hood badly askew, astonished at finding herself on horseback with the cut halter rope still dangling from her neck.
Suddenly an armored sergeant appeared in the gateway, bellowing threats and waving a brown bill—a huge ugly pole arm, half-ax and half-pruning hook. She could not go around him—no room. His hideous weapon went up to block her, gleaming in the sunlight, able to take off her head or Lily’s leg. But if she reined in, hands would seize her from behind, pulling her back out of the saddle—like Joan of Arc’s capture at Compiègne.
Without warning, the sergeant pitched suddenly forward, hit behind the knees by a perfect flying block. Seeing him go down, Robyn urged Lily to leap, holding tight to the girl in her lap. Hoofbeats ceased, giving way to a tinkling of saddle bells as they flew through the air. Looking down, she saw the sergeant and his assailant grappling beneath her in the gateway. Matt Davye had his knee in the sergeant’s armored midriff—delivering a timely goal-line block.
Courtyard cobblestones rushed up to greet her. She tightened her grip on Mary as Lily came crashing to earth like a white avalanche. Iron hooves rang sparks on the stones, drawing cheers from the cutthroats and gallows’ bait inhabiting the sanctuary of Saint Martin-le-Grand, accompanied by cries of, “Well ridden, m’lady. Welcome to Saint Martin’s.”
Doing a skidding dismount, Robyn slid out of the saddle and onto the stones, hoisted Mary to her shoulders, and staggered up the broad steps of Saint Martin’s, tripping on her skirts, her headdress askew. The assembled outlaws cried delightedly, “Mind the gown, m’lady!” And, “Spare your haste, Mass is on the morrow.”
Ignoring the gibes, she lurched through the open church door with Mary on her shoulders and stumbled into the tall stone nave bathed in colored sunlight that fell from stained glass. Astonished monks rushed to meet her as she tottered toward them like Quasimodo in a gold gown, crying, “Sanctuary! Sanctuary!”
Eager monks reached out to catch her as she collapsed in the nave. They helped untangle Mary, who was half-strangled by the cord around her neck. Robyn realized she’d come alarmingly close to hanging the girl, as requested. The monks could hardly hide their glee at having two such interesting fugitives come crashing into sanetuary—far better than the usual run of cutpurses and failed politicians. Sanctuaries were judged by their clientele, and Westminster got all the glamorous sinners, lords on the lam, and great ladies in distress, while Saint Martin’s made do with the ne’er-do-wells of London.
As monks unwound the rope halter, an amazed Mary gasped her thanks. “Oh, my God—m’lady, you have saved me.”
Kneeling, Robyn untied the girl’s small hands, finding them red and torn from the ropes. “Saint Martin saved you.” She nodded at the cavernous church. “I just got you here.” Saint Martin-le-Grand was the primary sanctuary within the walls of London, and even a murderess with blood on her hands was safe as soon as she crossed the threshold—or better yet threw herself on the altar. God’s forgiveness stood above human law. People in the third millennium might say that, but medievals truly believed it, building a huge free base for convicts and escapees just down the street from Newgate prison, right on the execution route. God’s forgiveness was always there—sometimes just steps away, if sinners would but take them.
Robyn dropped the bloody rope, smiling at Mary, “I said Heaven would hear you.” Small arms went immediately around Lady Robyn’s neck, astonishingly strong for someone so slight. Mary pulled them together, holding tight. After hearing her death sentence read minutes ago without batting an eyelash, Mary suddenly let go, burying her head in a gold shoulder and sobbing like a faucet now that she was safe.
Reaching around to comfort her, Robyn pushed back the whore’s hood, stroking the girl’s short brown hair, telling Mary she was free to cry; meanwhile robed monks stood watching a lady in a gold riding dress and a girl in a burning smock kneeling together on the big stone church floor. Ignoring the men of God—and the mayhem she’d made of Saint Anne’s Day—Robyn took a moment to thank Heaven while holding on to the crying teenager, feeling Mary’s fine bones and frail shoulders, overwhelmed by the humanness of the girl she had saved—not caring what came next. Whatever happened now, this was a rare moment of victory, and it needed to be savored and blessed.
By stages the girl’s shaking and sobbing subsided; Robyn could feel the thin ribs returning to a normal breathing rhythm. But when Robyn tried to separate herself a bit, Mary clung tighter, clutching the gold fabric, whispering, “Please do not leave me, m’lady. Stay with me, for I have been sore alone.”
She could well imagine—having been in a Tower cell herself, alone and expecting to die—finding it pretty damn awful. But Robyn had at least known Edward was outside, trying to break in, and it had given her a sliver of hope. This girl had been truly alone, in body and soul, with only Heaven to call on. And Saint Anne had answered. Gently Robyn reminded the girl, “You are no longer alone.” Far from it—this was a fairly crowded sanctuary. She nodded to the monks around them. “And these men of God will see you safe.”
Mary looked at the men around them, then back at Robyn, not at all liking the trade. “Must m’lady leave?”
“M’lady must.” She nodded sadly, having left a mess outside she needed to face. Deirdre was in Saxon hands, which made Robyn especially anxious; otherwise, she could have sat for some time in the cool of the church, holding this girl and hearing her story. “But I will see you are well cared for, I swear.”
Looking even more worried, Mary asked, “Will they not be wroth with you for freeing me?”
“Mayhap,” she admitted. “Definitely an angry undersheriff awaits without.”
“Then stay here with me, m’lady,” Mary begged, hugging her tighter, “that we may both be safe.”
She smiled at the girl’s concern. “Do not fear—you are but the least of my sins.” Heretics, witches, and traitors had no right to sanctuary—and Robyn was all three. If her enemies meant to take her, no Church could save her. But Mary, a mere murderer, should be tolerably safe in Saint Martin’s. Robyn told the girl, “I am a worse sinner than you can ever hope to be, and must face the folks outside.”
“But you will come back.” Mary said it like an unquestioned fact.
“I will come back,” she assured the girl. How could she not? She had saved this teenager’s life, and was now responsible for her—the latest addition to her growing circle of dependents.
“When, m’lady?” Mary demanded. Being saved from burning must have made Mary think she could get away with anything.
Robyn knew the feeling. On the night she was freed from the Tower she’d slept with Edward for the first time. Freedom was a heady thing, and the threat of hideous death made one greedy for life. She promised to be back “before the day is out.”
“Good.” Getting the answer she wanted, Mary laid her head back against Robyn’s shoulder, still loath to let go. Offered food, shelter, and safety, all the girl cared about was seeing her savior again. Robyn stroked the girl’s short hair, which felt fine and silky beneath her fingers, telling Mary how the monks would care for her—swearing to take her case to the earl of March.
“But you will come back,” Mary insisted.
“Before vespers if I can.” But first she must leave—slowly she pried herself free of the girl, at the same time pulling off Mary’s striped hood, not wanting to give the sanctuary’s denizens unsavory ideas. Folding the hood under her arm, she asked the monks to care for the girl, impulsively offering up her purse as a gift to Saint Martin. “Should she need anything, send for me, Robyn Stafford in Baynards Castle with the household of my lord, the earl of March.”
They nodded knowingly; even monks in their cloisters knew all about her personal affairs, or imagined they did. Luckily, English clergy could be amazingly tolerant of sin. Lords, knights, and sergeants-at-law had threatened her with burning for witchcraft, treason, and being “the earl of March’s whore”—but not a single cleric had been so much as uncivil to her, cheerfully offering her food, shelter, and solace whenever she was in need. Sometimes a little too much solace, but that, too, was an act of love.
Untwining the girl’s fingers from her dress, she kissed their tips and then turned Mary over to a young nun summoned by the monks. Reluctantly Mary accepted, letting the nun lead her to a woman’s cell in the sanctuary—where she would be safe for at least the forty days allowed by law. And forty days could easily be forever in medieval law; especially when you were supposed to be burned before noon.
Straightening up, Robyn was free for the moment, though still surrounded by thieves and murderers, with an angry undersheriff waiting at the door. So much for not daring to “flat-out defy the law.” Sometimes the law left one small choice. Lady Robyn adjusted her headdress, surprised not to have lost it completely; then she walked down the tall nave to kneel before the altar, thanking Saint Martin personally for his mercy. Crossing herself, she rose and went to reclaim her horse, which she left with the killers and cutpurses outside.
At the church door she was greeted by cheers from the assembled outlaws, along with calls of “Welcome to sanctuary!” and “Where did m’lady learn to ride?” Giving them her best Miss Rodeo Montana smile, she strode down the steps with the whore’s hood under her arm, getting still more cheers. Sanctuary inmates were shockingly easy to please. Stopping a couple of steps from the bottom, she acknowledged the applause, looking out over ill-shaven faces lit with crooked smiles. Producing a carrot from the folds of her dress, she signed for her horse.
Smiles turned to laughter. Scuffling broke out, but it was swiftly settled, and the winner led Lily over to her. He was a square dark cutthroat, with three days’ growth of black stubble on his face and a shifty smile. Heaven knew why he was in sanctuary, but the easy way he upended the opposition and brought Lily out showed he had a deft hand with other people’s horses. Going down on one knee, he offered up the reins, saying in broad Northumberland, “Yer mount, m’lady.”
As soon as she heard the northern accent, she knew she had already met this felon; he was a border reiver, a Percy moss-trooper brought south to fight for Mad King Henry. She had seen his swarthy face three weeks ago beneath a steel bonnet on the Sunday before the battle of Northampton, when Lord Egremont’s harbingers descended on the village of Hardingstone, and they had chatted briefly at a farmwife’s door. Now his lord was dead, and he had lost his helmet and chain-mail shirt, but he still wore Percy colors—russet and yellow. Too bad she lacked Edward’s knack for names, for she could not remember this fellow’s. Taking the reins, she thanked him in his native Northumberland.
His eyes widened with delight, hearing his home speech so far south of the Tyne. “Then you are indeed she? The bonny lass who spoke so fair to us the Sunday before the battle. When I rode with Fingerless Will, Mary’s Jock, Sweet-milk Selby, and Bangtail Bell. I hardly recognized you in yer fine headdress, but I well knew this mare.”
“Her name is Lily,” she told him, stroking the mare’s mane as she gave her the carrot. “And you are?”
“Black Dick Nixon,” he replied, bowing low. “At yer ladyship’s service.”
Black Dick Nixon, how could she have forgotten that? “What are you here for?”
He grinned at her, “Bad debts, m’lady.”
That she could believe. From the look of him, Black Dick Nixon had left a trail of fines, forfeitures, blackmail, and skipped bail stretching halfway to Scotland. Anyone recruited for loot was bound to have a cavalier attitude toward law and property. “And how long do you have left in sanctuary?”
“Better than a month,” Bad Dick Nixon boasted, happy to have most of his forty days ahead of him.
Two weeks ago, Lord Egremont’s northern riders went down to defeat in the brief battle of Northampton, leaving them stranded and penniless among southerners they had come to loot, and landing Black Dick Nixon in sanctuary for unspecified crimes. Stuffing the whore’s hood into her saddlebag, she let him help her to mount. Then, having given away her purse, she stripped a ring off her finger—a gold band she bought the day before in Cheapside, with a red stone matching her dress. Handing the ring down to Nixon, she told him, “Keep watch over the lass I brought here, and I will see those debts are paid. Her name is Mary, and mine is Robyn Stafford. I am lodged in Baynards Castle with the household of the earl of March; send for me if anything threatens that girl.”
“Whatever Yer Ladyship desires,” the blackguard promised, deftly kissing her hand. “And I will ask no more than a swift horse and a day’s start.”
“That you shall have for sure,” she assured him. What did Black Dick Nixon care if his creditors never got paid? And whatever crimes Nixon had on his conscience probably did not compare to the charges she faced, particularly when it came to lurid penalties. Leaning forward, she patted Lily, telling her, “Good girl, that was a real leap. But we may need to do it again. Be ready to run, and you get another carrot.”
Straightening in the saddle, she saw no sense in putting off the unpleasant. She must see to Deirdre, and Matt Davye, who had come to her aid when she needed it. Twice. Waving good-bye to the assembled inmates, she nudged Lily toward the gate, hearing a chorus of groans from heartbroken desperadoes. “Why so soon, m’lady? You are safer with us in Saint Martin’s.”
“True, too true,” she called back, figuring she might need friends in sanctuary. “But I have business without.”
Her heart climbed back in her throat as she headed for the gate. Rank required you to do right, otherwise you were just a genteel parasite, living off the sweat of others. Dame Agnes, a lowly mayor’s wife, spent her days letting air and light into the prisons. So how could a countess-to-be see injustice and not act? Her only real regret was not having Edward here with her; his easygoing good humor and sturdy six-foot frame had a soothing effect on folks. Twice she had seen him talk armed and desperate opponents into surrendering, without so much as touching his sword—both times she had been almighty glad to have him at her side. Saying a quiet prayer to Saint Anne, whose day it was, and to Hecate, who had gotten her in this mess, she rode briskly out the sanctuary gate.
Stunned silence greeted her. She saw Dame Agnes standing between Deirdre and the undersheriff—in a heated discussion seconded by armed sergeants and concerned clerics. Still on horseback, Deirdre was saying nothing, holding hard to her saxe knife and playing dumb for the Saxons, letting Dame Agnes do the talking. Matt Davye had disappeared, but the sergeant he tackled was back on his feet, still holding his hideous pole arm. Cheapside shoppers, clerks from Saint Paul’s cloisters, and the crowd from Cornhill looked up in surprise as she emerged, her silk headdress high, soft bells jingling on her saddle.
For a long moment folks stared at her, startled by her sudden return. Then cheering erupted, long and loud, spontaneous applause that turned to cries of, “Hay-hay, Hurray! Hay-hay, Hurray!”—growing into a full-throated roar, a standing ovation easily eclipsing the cheers from the men in sanctuary. Her hollow ache vanished, replaced by waves of giddy relief and mounting excitement. London did love her, even above the law. This Saturday crowd of Cheapside shoppers, market women, Saint Paul’s clerics, drapers’ boys, and drunken sailors sided with her, glad to see Mary in the hands of Mother Church. She had given a surprise ending to the morning’s tragedy, a happy miracle that drove the audience wild.
Pressing closer, people patted Lily and plucked at Robyn’s gold hem, touching, squeezing, offering up their hands the way they did when the rebel earls first entered the city. Her own love for London’s commons welled up, bringing happy tears to her eyes for the first time in this godawful morning. In a weird way these were her people—maybe she was not a medieval, but beneath her silks and satins she was as common as they. From the day she arrived in the Middle Ages common people had welcomed her, especially women and girls, but men, as well—not knowing she was from the future, just knowing she looked cute and lost. Armed nobles and king’s men had hounded and threatened her, but from Sandwich to North Wales, ordinary Britons had been nothing but nice to her, feeding her and sheltering her, standing up to the law when they had to—asking only to hear tales of far-off places, or life at Court, or what young Lord Edward was like in bed. Women called to her, waving their brooms triumphantly from upper-floor windows in honor of Saint Anne.
Buoyed by the applause, she rode happily forward, blissfully grateful. In Hollywood she had been a production assistant, wishing she were a star; here she was on center stage in the theater of the world, and London loved her act. Any objections from the undersheriff were drowned out by the crowd, and the knowledge that she enjoyed the earl of March’s “good lordship.” Much as she loved the commons, Robyn was thankful rank had its privileges, especially when they rubbed off on her. Reaching down, she touched people’s outstretched hands, guiding Lily with her knees through the cheering throng, glad to be so loved, but also anxious to reclaim her maid and saxe knife from a thankful Dame Agnes. She still had a tournament to go to.
 
Copyright © 2003 by R. Garcia y Robertson