Sin and Surrender (4 page)

Soon sweat dripped into her eyes, and her breathing quickened. When she maneuvered him into pivoting to block her sword, she pulled her dagger out of its hidden spot in her boot, to simulate a thrust into his armpit.

He challenged that as well, calling, “Well done!”

She squelched the little thrill of pride his words caused. She should not care what he thought. But even though she’d only spent a few months learning from him, he’d been her first teacher, and had commanded her respect with the fair treatment he granted her. She thought of his disparagement of her sex just yesterday? had he changed, or simply hidden his true self from her?

At last she gave a mighty heave to his chest, and as he stepped backward, his boot caught on a rock, and he tumbled onto his backside. She well knew if they’d been fighting for real, he would have defeated her within the first minute, such was his knowledge and skill. Skill granted him by the League, though he disdained them.

As the ladies applauded wildly and the men cheered, Juliana sheathed her sword and reached down a hand to Paul. He took it, sprang to his feet, but didn’t release her
immediately. His hand felt warm, rough with calluses, so large compared to her own. The touch of him reminded her of their playacting yesterday, when she’d been the concubine, and he’d been her very interested lover.

She pulled her hand away, not wanting to think about that.

Paul grinned, his gaze intent on her face, as if trying to read everything about her. And although Bladesmen were taught to read expressions, they were also well trained to conceal what they wished. So he was deliberately trying to tease her, to throw
her
off-balance.

“What skill you have, Juliana!” Lady Keswick cried.

“And next she’ll wear a disguise,” Mistress Hilliard added. “It seems so exciting.”

“‘Twill not be exciting,” Juliana said, sobering. “Living every moment of the day pretending to be someone else is exacting work.”

“And I will be a difficult commander,” Paul said.

“Then ‘tis good that I will not see that side of you, for Sir Timothy is our commander.”

She thought the jibe an apt one, but he didn’t seem to see the amusement, for his smile faded. Adam and Robert glanced at each other, but revealed nothing else.

Late that morning, after their return to the League house, Paul removed a bound book from his saddlebag before a guard led his horse away.

Juliana eyed it with open speculation. “Did you have a chance to read much?”

“I read it all, even managing to stay awake, too.”

The League had asked him to familiarize himself with Edward IV, late father of the queen and the little princes, one of whom Paul would impersonate. Paul had been surprised at the details the League had discovered about the last days of the boys, locked in the Tower of London, unable to see their mother or sisters, who were closeted at Westminster Abbey.

Once he was with Timothy and the rest of the Bladesmen in the house, he patiently let himself be quizzed on his knowledge.

When it seemed to go on too long, Paul said, “Surely you can see that my skills at memorization are functioning. I’m prepared.”

Michael gave him an arch look. “Are we not right to be concerned? Should things go wrong, our heads would end up beside yours on pikes on London Bridge. The king would not claim us if it would reflect badly on him.”

With a heavy sigh, Paul launched into a sad narrative of Prince Richard’s time in the tower, as if it were his own story, his confusion over why his uncle had taken the throne, his longing for his mother, his grief over his father’s death. Soldiers had later spoken in whispers of how the boy expected death, and knelt day and night
praying for his soul. It was a sad ending for a child, although there was no proof
what
had happened. But the boys were gone, and King Henry, their brother by marriage, wouldn’t want them to return. Throughout his speech, Paul saw Juliana watching him, her expression impassive, her dark eyes alive with cool intelligence.

“Enough,” Timothy said at last. “I am impressed, Paul, for you had little time to study the material.”

Paul found himself ready to answer with sarcasm, to say such was the training of the League. But he didn’t need to remind his foster father of his bitterness and disappointment. “What next do you wish of me?” he asked.

Timothy sent the two of them up to the first-floor bedchambers, where their new wardrobes awaited them. Paul was surprised by how well the garments fit him, though he hadn’t been measured by a tailor. There were doublets and tunics of vivid colors, patterned and multicolored hose to match, capes and belted coats trimmed in fur. Several hats were adorned with large feathers, and chains glittered with pendants.

Paul practiced his slouch, and found himself sighing.

“Vain?” Michael asked from behind him.

Paul frowned. “Put yourself in my place, forced to be weak and soft, an easy target.”

Michael only shrugged, as if he didn’t want to offer sympathy. He’d been assigned to act as Paul’s manser
vant, and his faintly disapproving air would most likely grow tiresome.

Paul buckled on his sword, still angry at playing a part that left him so vulnerable to attack.

They met up with the rest of the party in the front hall below. Paul distracted himself by eyeing Juliana, and she did the same to him.

Considering he’d just fought the woman several hours before, he was amazed at the transformation. Would he ever become used to this? It was like looking at a gaily wrapped present every day—one he wasn’t permitted to unwrap.

She was dressed in royal blue, trimmed in fur, with a jeweled girdle hung low about her hips. Her neckline was square, with the curves of her breasts visible beneath a scrap of sheer lace that might be a sensual undergarment. Daring, sexual, and marking her as less than a wife, and more than a common prostitute.

“Do I meet with your approval?” Juliana asked dryly.

“You’ll have to consult me every day,” he answered smoothly.

After hiding their finery beneath cloaks, they all went outside to the waiting horses. Paul considered the open gate, where anyone could see them, and decided to launch into his role. When he took Juliana’s gloved hand in his, she allowed him to bring it to his lips.

“Mistress Juliana, permit me to help you mount.”

“I am your concubine, not your wife,” she said with exasperation.

“But some might think a concubine treated better than a wife.”

“Then that is a sad, cynical state of mind.”

“Regardless, I am a man who treats well what’s mine. And you are mine, for the near future.”

He could tell she gritted her teeth, but she nodded her acquiescence. “How do you wish to—”

He picked her up by the waist, and she gripped his forearms. Though tall enough to be a man, she felt surprisingly light. She was able to put a foot in the stirrup, then gracefully slide her other leg across the saddle. When he released her, she settled her voluminous skirts so that only the toes of her boots showed. She’d adopted masculine footwear, but again, a concubine could do as she wished.

“No sidesaddle?” he asked, looking up at her. “I do not wish to have someone leading me. If we’re chased, I need to be able to control my own horse.”

Before Paul could respond, Timothy called abruptly, “Let us be off.”

Both Paul and Juliana pulled their hoods up, and the entire party set out through the rear entrance into the alley, meandering slowly through crooked streets while the horses picked their way through refuse. It wasn’t until they neared the London Bridge that they cast off
their cloaks in the sun and rode almost royally through the crowds, drawing gawking attention from fishwives with their loaded panniers to bakers holding pies over their heads. They followed a flock of geese being driven up the narrow path of the bridge, between the merchant shops and homes built on its two-hundred-year-old span.

It was almost a parade, Paul thought, keeping a faint, noble smile about his mouth.

And then there was Juliana, the queen of the parade. She dazzled every man on the street, her expression serene and confident, her black hair hanging in long, gentle curls about her body. She looked like a woman of leisure, a woman of sin.

She saw him staring, and the smile she gave him was full of raw intimacy that was as physical as a punch to the gut. Her knowing eyes slid down his body with open possession, promising much when they were alone that night. She was making their disguise far easier than he’d imagined it would be.

“Paul, my love, do you not see the children?” she asked.

He was too busy thinking of an answering endearment to understand her intent. “Your pardon, my duckling?”

She arched her brows, and he thought the corner of her lip twitched slightly, but all she did was point ahead of them. “The children? Perhaps you should wave?”

And then he saw several scruffy children out for a day’s adventure. They gaped up at the closely formed entourage, eyes wide with wonder. Why was he supposed to wave? But he did so with gusto.

“Do you have any pennies?” she asked. “Do offer some.”

He gave her an appreciative smile, then reached into the purse on his belt and tossed a few to the children. They gasped and cried out, scrambling for them. And when one small boy was left with his hands empty, his lips trembling, Juliana reached across from her horse, plucked another coin, and tossed it to the boy. Wearing a new grin, he touched the brim of his cap and ran.

The party reached the summit of the bridge, where another tower rose into the sky between the buildings. The road narrowed even further, until Paul’s and Juliana’s knees touched occasionally as they rode. They were now a spectacle, people gaping as they approached, a growing crowd following from behind. There was no way to escape down the crowded thoroughfare, no room to maneuver on horseback. There should be no reason for attack now, at the beginning of the mission, but it had been instilled in him to constantly prepare for any event.

Over his shoulder, he could see Theobald bringing up the rear, leather jerkin rough and worn, bare bulging arms warning that he well knew how to use a sword.

His craggy face, with its half mask promising to hide something fearful, was enough of a deterrent for many in the crowd. He guided two riderless horses, their panniers stuffed with garments, armor, and supplies for the journey north. In front of Theobald rode Roger, giving a gap-toothed grin at the children they’d just passed, and Joseph, drawing stares, but for the opposite reason as Theobald. His handsome face had many maids sighing and waving their handkerchiefs with delight. Timothy and Michael had the lead, weaving a path through the crowd.

A fine retinue, Paul knew, but if they were attacked, he would have to sit back like a coward and allow them to defend him.

And then there were the rumors his Bladesmen deliberately began to spread. He caught phrases as Michael and Timothy spoke too loudly to each other about “showing his face in London,” and “if the king hears of this.” Speculation should eventually spread through London and beyond, into the north, where enemies waited.

Paul was glancing up at the three-story buildings rising high on either side of him, when he happened to notice an upper window open, and someone leaned out with a pot.

In character, Paul shouted, “Anon, Michael, look above! Do hurry! I’m not about to be tossed with filth because of your crawling pace.”

Juliana ignored him, as if she was used to his sudden flares of temper. He saw Michael’s back stiffen, but the Bladesman urged his horse into a trot, and more than one man on the street yelped as he jumped out of their way.

Juliana found herself impressed with Paul’s mastery of his character. He’d been away from League duty for several years, yet he managed to focus on playing a spoiled, entitled man. There was an arrogance in his smile, a boldness in his possessiveness of her. As long as he didn’t think the latter was true …

For herself, crossing the bridge as a spectacle was—exhausting. She wasn’t used to being gaped at, wondered about. There were no sneers, since for all the townspeople knew, she was his wife. The sneers would come later.

She was so used to blending in, being unobtrusive, able to watch while not being seen. As the afternoon went on, she found herself longing for peace and solitude, for no voices to be ringing in her ears. But of course, then she would be alone with Paul, their first night together as supposed lovers.

Within an hour, they reached a lively tavern in South-wark where they stopped for supper. Paul spent lavishly, seeming to enjoy being the center of the party. With his blond hair and dazzling blue eyes, he commanded the attention of everyone there, man or maidservant. He flirted with the barmaids, then drew Juliana onto his
lap, as if he didn’t want her to think he was ignoring her. Instead of accepting his flirtation, she stiffened and gave him a cool look of simmering anger, as if should he keep this up, he would regret it that night.

It was harder than she imagined to work like this, to pay attention to any threats from the crowd, when she felt absolutely surrounded by Paul. She could feel his hard thighs beneath her backside, his arms about her waist, his hand resting on her knee. His broad chest rose against her back with every breath. It took everything in her not to shiver at each touch, and she grew angry with herself. She was a master at blending in—and yet she felt overwhelmed by the task of playing his concubine. Whenever he spoke to her, he would bend to whisper into her ear. She could feel his warm breath stir the curls on her neck.

Once, his lip touched the shell of her ear, and she almost flinched at the intimacy, but was determined not to show weakness. She had to accept the way his hand caressed the length of her arm as if to soothe her.

At last they finished their meal. The tavern owner showed sincere regret at their departure, especially after Paul, on being told their bill, handed over his purse as if it seemed too much effort to count, offering to pay for drinks for their fellow revelers. Tankards of ale were raised in cheers and toasts as they left. Their return journey to the north side of the Thames was far less
crowded, now that encroaching darkness lingered in the air. Lanterns were lit along the bridge and through the streets, guiding their way.