The Rose at Twilight (3 page)

“And he refused?”

She nodded again. “All I got for my effort was punishment. Father wrote to his lordship, describing in grave terms my lack of gratitude, my arrogance, and my boldness in complaining of my lot. He said I had got above myself, and he apologized to Lord Drufield for my behavior. The resulting interview was both painful and humiliating, as were the months that followed.”

“So you were glad to leave.”

Alys could not disagree. She looked at him. “I would have preferred a better reason for my departure, sir. I did believe I was to leave soon, in any case.”

“Then you do expect to be wed?”

“Aye, to Sir Lionel Everingham. Do you know aught of him?”

He shook his head. “A Yorkist?”

“Of course he is a Yorkist! My marriage was arranged by King Richard nigh onto eight months ago, and I would have been wedded by now, were it not for the wretched Tudor. Now I do not even know if Sir Lionel still lives.”

“Whether he does or not will not signify,” he replied, “since all such betrothals will certainly be set aside. You will be in ward, after all, and I doubt that his grace, the king, will wish to leave your hand in Yorkist keeping. There is Wolveston now,” he added with a gesture.

The castle, atop its low hill, loomed darkly through the gray mist ahead, and Alys gazed silently upon her birthplace. She had not lived at Wolveston Hazard since the age of nine, half a lifetime ago, but it was still her home. In truth, she had more feeling for the stone walls and the turrets than she had ever had for the people within. Her parents had both been cold people, her father more interested in his books than in his children, her mother not interested in anything much at all. If Alys had felt anything for them as a child, it had been fear of displeasing them, for punishment had been swift and harsh.

Life at Middleham had been far gentler, and she had experienced overwhelming sorrow at the news of Anne’s passing. But she felt nothing now for her mother, little for her father, although she hoped to see him before he died, and hoped, too, that her tongue would not cleave to the roof of her mouth when she attempted to speak to him, as it always had done when she was small. She would have to be stronger now. There were questions to which she needed answers.

“I am sorry,” Merion said.

She stared at him, then realized that he thought the sight of the castle had stirred her to grief. “I am alone now,” she said slowly, “or nearly so. A week ago I had a family and other people to protect me. Today I have no one.”

“You are safe,
mi geneth
,” he said gently. “None will harm you whilst you are in my charge, and whatever you might believe of Harry Tudor, you will soon find him to be a good man.”

Frowning, she said, “I do not know by what name you call me now, sir, nor do I care. Your Tudor is the true usurper—and a murderer withal—who has no right to the throne of England, as any man with sense, even a Welshman, must know to be true.”

She heard Jonet gasp and was immediately aware of her own vulnerability, face to face as she was with the enemy, his own men gathered around them. Nevertheless, she kept her chin high and forced her gaze to meet his.

To her astonishment he smiled. “Do you know your eyes flash golden sparks when you are angry?” Before she could react, he added, “
‘Mi geneth’
means only ‘wench’ or ‘my lass,’ nothing more. When did you come to believe that Welshmen have no sense?”

Alys opened her mouth, then shut it again, looking at him in bewilderment. “I did not say they do not.”

“That is what you meant.”

She heard the echo of her words in her mind and knew he had justification for saying what he did, but since she had no idea how to reply to him, she looked away and was silent.

They were approaching a cluster of tents. Several moments passed, and then at last, as they drew to a halt near the largest, she turned to him and said quietly, “I must make my apologies again, sir. I ought not to have spoken so.”

“Will you be sorry if you are not allowed to marry this Sir Lionel Everingham?”

Her eyes opened wide and she spoke without thinking. “I do not know him. Richard arranged our betrothal, and I was present with Sir Lionel for the ceremony, but I have never spoken more than a word or two to him.”

He nodded, apparently with satisfaction. Then he gestured toward the tent before them. “You will sleep here, my lady, with your woman. You will be perfectly safe.” He dismounted.

Looking down at him, Alys said, “I would see my father, Sir Nicholas. He may be my only living kin. You must not deny me.”

He shook his head. “You still have brothers, and I cannot allow it, in any event. The danger is too great. ’Tis why I ordered your escort back to Drufield.” Having not realized he had done so, she glanced back to see that Geordie and the others had indeed departed. Before she could protest, Sir Nicholas said, “Nearly everyone inside that pile of stones has died, mistress. There is no one left now but a servant who looks after your father, and an old herb woman; and, although the cold weather allowed us to put off the burials until you could be here, we must leave tomorrow. We stay to bury the dead, no longer.”

“But I—”

“No.” He did not raise his voice, nor did he frown, but there was no mistaking the fact that that was his final word on the subject. She dared not press him further. Though he seemed to be a gentleman, he was unknown, and even at Middleham she had been taught the hard lesson of obedience to masculine authority.

She bowed her head submissively but decided at the same time that, one way or another, she would see her father. Before their departure, the Welshman must be made to understand that she would not allow him to deny her that final parting. Until then, however, it would be well to lull his suspicions, and while she bided her time, she would think.

I
NSIDE THE LARGE TENT,
Alys drew off her gloves and looked silently about her. Even the soft golden glow of the oil lantern did not improve the spartan furnishings or make the place look homelike. On the damp dirt floor, near the left canvas wall, lay a pallet of furs with more furs piled on a joint stool beside it. An open coffer stood opposite, with a wood prayer bench between—the sort known since Norman days as a prie-dieu. The only other furniture to be seen was a traveling washstand near the pallet. The lantern hung from a hook on the center pole.

“This is your tent,” Alys said to Sir Nicholas, pushing off her hood to reveal her damp and tangled tresses.

“Yours now, mistress. One of my lads will take me in. Tom there is my squire and will gather my gear. Have you eaten?”

“Aye, some bread and butter at noon.”

He frowned. “I’ll have someone prepare a proper meal. ’Tis after five, but despite the clouds, it will not be dark for some hours yet, so mayhap you wish to rest a bit before you sup.”

“Can someone bring me water?”

“To drink? There is a flask—”

“To remove some of the dust of the road from my person,” Alys said tartly. She held out a muddy wrist. “My skin is not generally this color, sir, I promise you.”

He chuckled. “Would you bathe then, mistress?” He gestured toward the little washstand.

She eyed it dubiously. “Is there no proper tub?”

“One might be fetched from the castle, I suppose, but you will catch your death of cold.”

“I can scarcely be wetter or colder than I am right now,” she pointed out, “and I would like very much to—”

“I’ll order the water heated,” he said, shaking his head in amusement. “I have no canopy or curtains, but like as not, the tent walls will protect you from most drafts. Nonetheless, you are not to wash your hair, Lady Alys.”

“That she will not,” put in Jonet, looking sourly at her mistress, “for ’twould never dry in this weather. The very idea! You can do what needs doing as well with yon basin, my lady, so there be no need to make Sir Nicholas’s men tote water for the next hour only to satisfy a foolish whim.”

Sir Nicholas smiled at Jonet. “I have no objection, and the task will not take so long as that. By the time they have found the tub and fetched it out, we will have hot water. ’Twill warm your mistress through, I’m thinking, and thus be no bad thing.”

Alys nodded gratefully, then pointed out that her hair was already wet. “Washing can only improve it,” she said.

“Nage, mi geneth.”
He felt it, his hand strong against her scalp. “’Tis damp only, not wet through like ’twould be if you washed it. Your woman has the right of it. You rub it dry and then brush it out. I would like to see it dry,” he added. “Though it is not dark, as I prefer a wench’s hair to be, ’twill look like burnished gold and mayhap be even prettier than her highness’s, for hers is too pale, like flax. Insipid, I thought it, though long and smooth as silk, withal.”

His touch sent a flame of warmth shooting through her chilled body, and Alys, disconcerted by the sensation, stepped away from him and turned, her chin held high so that he might not guess the effect he had had upon her. “Thank you for your kindness, sir,” she said evenly. “I look forward with pleasure to my bath.” With a casual gesture of dismissal she turned to Jonet. “Have we herbs at hand to stir into the water?”

“Aye, my lady, when they fetch the coffers off the sumpter ponies. Best you get out of that damp cloak in the meantime.”

Alys nodded, but before she could remove the scarlet cloak, Sir Nicholas said from behind, startling her, “Keep it on.” To Jonet he added, “Damp or not, ’twill keep her warmer than she would be without it, unless you have another with the baggage.”

Alys looked down her nose at him, no easy task since he was nearly a foot taller than she was. “I thought you had gone to order my bath.”

He said steadily, “Have you another cloak, mistress?”

“Not as warm as this one, but my mother had a fur one, I think. Perhaps, since your men must go to the castle—”

“Your mother’s cloak might be infected,” he said. “Keep that one on till I find you something else. Then we can dry it by one of the fires. If the rain keeps off, that is.”

“You worry so much about infection,” she said, “that I cannot help but wonder why you will risk two of your men merely to fetch a tub for me.”

He shook his head. “You forget that we Welshmen seem not to be at risk. I have a few healthy Scotsmen and—”

“Scotsmen?” She remembered then, vaguely, that he had spoken before of foreigners. “But the Scots are our enemies!”

“There are any number of them, however, and Frenchmen, too, who are not the enemies of the king’s noble highness.”

She scowled. “Mercenaries!”

“If you like. I shall send a Scotsman for your tub, shall I? Mayhap he will sicken and die to please you.”

Pointedly she turned her back upon him, and a moment later a sharp but brief stir of cold air announced his departure. She heard him shout but paid no heed to his words, turning her attention instead to her companion. “It appears that we shall soon be bound for London, Jonet.”

“Aye, mistress. I have never been there.”

“Nor have I, as you know full well.” She wrinkled her nose. “I wonder what it means to be the king’s ward. I have no wish to find myself a slave to Elizabeth, but if wardship is like fostering, that is what will happen, for she told me once that she expects to marry that Tudor knave. ’Tis most likely she was lying, of course, just as she did when she said poor Anne’s Dickon would wed with her, or the time before that when she told everyone he had gifted her with a Christmas gown when Anne herself had presented her with the fabric left from her own.”

“The Tudor has named her princess,” Jonet pointed out.

“Aye,” Alys admitted thoughtfully, “and ’tis a grave risk for him to do so, for if she is a true princess, her brothers are likewise royal, and the Tudor has no true claim to the throne.”

“Lord Drufield said Henry Tudor did lay his claim by right of battle, claiming God had thus clearly chosen him king.”

Alys hunched a shoulder. “God cannot be so cruel. Our king was betrayed by men he trusted, and that is all there is about it. If the Tudor was chosen by God, why does he date his reign, as he did in his round-letter, from the day before the battle? I expect God to punish him for such a falsehood, do not you?”

“We know why the Tudor did that,” Jonet said acidly. “’Tis otherwise impossible to name loyal men traitors who did fight for their king. By claiming to have reigned from the day before, he calls them traitors to himself, but what God thinks of such can be known only in His own good time.”

“I know what I think about it.” Feeling another draft, Alys turned sharply to see that the squire, Tom, had entered the tent.

He bowed, touching his forelock. “I ha’ come for m’
meistr’s
trappings, an it please you, m’lady.”

Alys nodded, then looked at Jonet, not surprised to see a frown on her round face. Alys, too, wondered how much the lad had heard and whether he would repeat her words to his master.

When Tom had gone, hefting the heavy coffer before him, Jonet clicked her tongue.

“I know,” Alys said before she could speak, “and you are right. I shall henceforth mind what I say.”

“’Twill be a new thing, that will,” muttered her henchwoman.

Alys grinned at her ruefully. “I vow to you that I will mend my ways. Indeed, I have behaved right well these several months past, have I not?”

“Out of fear of her ladyship’s swift right hand,” retorted Jonet. “Not for else, I’m thinking.”

Frowning, Alys said thoughtfully, “I disliked Lady Drufield, ’tis true, but I feared Anne’s displeasure the more. So gentle was she that the slightest reproof—” The knifing pain in her throat and chest caught her unaware, as did the tears that welled into her eyes. She turned away, trying unsuccessfully to stifle the sudden gusting sobs that threatened to overwhelm her.

Jonet moved swiftly to her side and put a strong arm around her, hugging her but giving her an admonitory shake at the same time. “Lassie, do not,” she said in the same way she had spoken when Alys was small. “’Twill do thee no good to weep. She’s been gone these five months and more, and ’tis as well that she has, for had she lived to hear how the villains desecrated his noble grace’s blessed body after they murdered him, she’d ha’ been wracked asunder by the shame of it. Thinkst tha’ of that now, and dry thy tears. ’Tis naught but selfishness to dwell upon thine own grief.”