Lady Robyn

Book 2: War of the Roses

by R. Garcia y Robertson

Genres: Historical Fiction; Literary Fiction

Synopsis

The author of two highly praised novels, The Spiral Dance and American Woman, R. Garcia y Robertson returns with a charming time-travel romance sequence. In Knight Errant, Robyn Stafford, a young American woman hiking in England near the Welsh border, was swept back in time to the 1460s, the age of the War of the Roses. There she fell in love with a young knight, Edward, son of the Duke of York. Cast back in time by witchcraft, Robyn, a young executive from Hollywood, raised in Montana, has chosen to stay there out of love for Edward, who has promised to marry her.

Now in Lady Robyn, Robyn's fantasy of courtly romance comes up against the brute reality of medieval politics: the politics of murder, warfare, and betrayal. The War of the Roses is no longer a textbook subject, it's messing up her life, and so is the noble witch who, though he doesn't know it, is Edward's enemy. Edward's father, Richard, is making a bid for the throne, and if he wins it, Edward will be heir apparent. And if Robyn marries him, she will someday be queen and her children heirs to the throne as well. In the 1460s, that means living with the constant threat of death. The survival rate for heirs is not high. Will Robyn reject her love or risk the lives of her children to be?

This is an engrossing time-travel romance in the mold of Diana Gabaldon's bestselling timeslip tales.

At the Publisher's request, this title is being sold without Digital Rights Management Software (DRM) applied.

Release date: February 1, 2003

Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates

Print pages: 400

Sample

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 wea