Tori Phillips (11 page)

Edward raised an eyebrow. “How now?”

Gareth drained the rest of the wine. “We will steal the wench right out from under Ford.” He chuckled at that idea. “Twill stew up that old man in his own foul juices. He has always prided himself as an expert seducer. We will say she ran away from him, then proclaim far and wide of his failure to keep even a common whore satisfied. He will come to rue the day he tweaked
my
nose.”

Fitzhugh stared out beyond the practice yard. “Aye, a good plan, but how will you effect it? Ford guards her like an old hen with one chick.”

Gareth leaned against the railing. “He will have to leave her when he attends the king. I highly doubt that he will parade her under Great Harry’s nose no matter what pretty ribbons he ties on her. We will set a man to watch his tent. Meanwhile I will bide my time as if I have forgotten the whole matter. Young Ormond there…” he pointed to his hapless practice partner “—he will make a good watchdog.”

Fitzhugh nodded. “In that you speak the truth. Walter is slimy enough to flit between shadows and he possesses no inconvenient morals.”

Gareth gave a hollow laugh.
And once the wench is in my hands, I will make her curse the day she ever smiled at anyone but me.

* * *

Rosie lay in her trundle bed and stared at the canvas roof. She could hear Sir Andrew and Jeremy speaking in low voices on the other side of the silken curtain that separated the sleeping area from the main part of the pavilion. The light of the single lantern cast their elongated shadows against the curtain. The pink color of the silk bathed Rosie’s side of the tent in a restful glow.

She yawned without bothering to cover her mouth as her mentor had chided her to do all evening. She stretched her body under the light linen sheet and wiggled her throbbing toes. Her slippers were indeed beau tiful to admire but hellish to wear. Her whole body ached. How could walking with a book balanced on her head make her feel so exhausted? Plucking geese and washing brothel house linen was much harder work, but she could not remember when she last felt so tired. No wonder ladies looked pale and pinched in the face!

On the other side of the curtain, Sir Andrew said “haint” to Jeremy and they both laughed. Rosie made a face in their direction. Sir Andrew had spent the long, tiresome afternoon trying to teach her proper speech. The account slate had so many markings and erasures on it by now that Rosie wasn’t too sure if she was ahead or behind. She sighed and chewed her fingernail.

Where was this playacting going to lead when all was said and done? What did Sir Andrew’s wager with Sir Brandon matter now? Rosie estimated that her lord had already spent twice as much as the money he hoped to win from the elder Cavendish.

“For the blessed challenge of it, my dear,” he had told her when she asked him that very question during supper. “In all of Great Harry’s court, Sir Andrew Ford is known to be the authority of refinement and good taste. Tis my jest upon them all.” He chuckled.

Rosie had plopped her elbows on the table between them and had asked, “And me? Am I merely your jest as well?”

She remembered that he had looked surprised at her question. She had no idea why. It was a perfectly logical thing to ask.

“How now?” He had raised one eyebrow in that highly engaging manner of his. “Do you not like wearing pretty clothes? Or eating good food—like that baked sole you are trying to stuff in your mouth all at once? Break it into pieces, my dear. The fish doesn’t mind a bit. And have you lost interest in earning a few shillings for all these pains?”

It had been on the tip of her tongue to ask “Then what?” but she was afraid of his answer. For all his gentle manners and flowery speech, Sir Andrew was like any other man. He would eventually use her for his own pleasure—whatever that may be—promise her the moon, then toss her in the dust of the road. Rosie sat up, drew her knees to her chest and propped her chin on them.

She ought to run away from this mad lark before it went any further. But where to? Certainly not back to Quince—blast his black, penny-pinching heart. She knew now that she would rather die than return to the stews of Southwark. On the other hand, she knew that she could not stay in France once the English went home. How could she manage when she could neither understand nor speak their language? As it was, she was having enough trouble learning how to speak her own.

Sir Andrew laughed again and the sound filled Rosie with a warmth that she had felt last night. He had a wonderful laugh, deep and sensual, that sent ripples of a strange new awareness through her. Just then, he asked for his lute, plucked a few notes on it, cleared his throat
and began to sing a tender ballad. Leaning back against the plump feather pillows, Rosie closed her eyes and allowed the sweet melody to wash over her.

Why should she want to run anywhere when there was a haven of comfort and safety in Andrew’s tent—and also, there was Andrew. She smiled in the semidarkness. What a fine man he was! So full with life and the joy of living. He greeted each hour of the day like a newfound treasure. Despite his long-winded speeches and his obsession with his wager, he had a gentle touch and soft words.

No matter how many times she had said “haint” or broken one of the thousand rules of courtly etiquette, Andrew never lost patience and struck her as her foster father had often done. By all rights, he should have given her back to Quince as a poor bargain—after he had deflowered her, of course. Her lower lip trembled.
What
would he do if and when he finally decided to take what he had purchased? The man was no lackwit. Would his good humor finally snap when he discovered that she did not have a shred of virginity left? She buried her head in the crook of her elbow.

Tonight he had tucked her into her bed as if he were her real father—nay, like a fond older brother. Then he had leaned over and kissed her gently on the forehead. Rosie touched the place where his lips had pressed against her skin and sighed.
I wish he had kissed my lips instead. After all, I did clean and polish my teeth in a proper ladylike manner.

Earlier that morning Jeremy had assured her that his master was a man in every sense of the word. The squire hinted that Andrew had years of lovemaking experience. Rosie remembered the way that Lady Olivia had looked at him—like she wanted to pour honey all over him and
lick him clean. Rosie damned the noblewoman to a very hot clime.

She ran her fingers through her hair. What was so wrong with her? Why didn’t she attract Andrew’s favor? She had kept her face clean and her hair brushed all day long, just as he had wanted. Wasn’t she pretty enough or clean enough for him now?

Rosie, you dolt, you have fallen in love with Sir Andrew. Close up your heart, for he will break it as sure as there are stars in the heavens.

She lay down and shut her eyes against the powerful emotions that struggled within her heart.
I am his chattel and nothing else.
She turned away from his lilting music and covered her ears with a pillow.

I am also the greatest fool in this tent!

T
he Countess of Thornbury lifted her wide skirts of popinjay blue fustian and stepped around a large pile of steaming horse droppings. She nodded to several disheveled gentlemen she knew who returned her early morning salutation with a mixture of guilty looks and painful movements. Alicia Cavendish smiled to herself. No doubt she had caught her acquaintances creeping back to their abodes after an all-night carouse. At least, it wasn’t one of her sons or their irresponsible Stafford cousin.
Twould be an awkward moment for all concerned.

Alicia smiled in earnest when she spied poor, overworked Jeremy boiling a large kettle of water outside his master’s tent. “Good morrow, Jeremy,” she called to the youth. “Is Sir Andrew awake?”

The squire spun around, stared at her and nearly fell backward into the fire. “Lady Alicia!” he gasped. “Tis early in the day to pay a call.” He wrung his hands and cast a quick glance at the closed flaps.

Alicia knew exactly why Andrew’s loyal squire looked like a little boy caught with of crock of honey. She circled around the fire. “Since you are preparing Andrew’s shaving water, I presume that he
is
awake.”

Jeremy planted himself in front of the entrance. He practically quaked in her presence. “Aye, my lady, but he is not yet dressed.”

Enjoying the squire’s obvious discomfort, Alicia cocked her head and gave him an innocent smile. “Oh? Methought I heard he had a young woman whom he had taken under his wing. Is this not true, Jeremy?”

The boy licked his lips and looked miserable. “Nay…that is…aye, but tis not what you think, my lady.”

Alicia pretended surprise. “But what
am
I to think if Andrew has a woman in his tent and yet you say he is not dressed? Come, come, Jeremy. You answer out of both sides of your mouth.”

The perspiring squire backed up against the entrance. “My master is not
fully
dressed, my lady. Not for receiving visitors. But he is properly attired in his hose and shirt. Truly things are not what they seem to be.”

Alicia chuckled. “I shall be the judge of that. Announce me!”

The youth swallowed. “God shield me,” he whispered under his breath. Then he ducked into the tent.

Alicia followed him inside. Twenty years of raising Brandon and Guy had taught their mother to take the advantage of surprise.

Andrew sat on a folding stool with his back to her. As Jeremy had said, he was indeed clothed informally. “No cooperation, no breakfast,” he admonished the young girl who stood in the center of his ornate rug with his lute book in her hands and fire in her green eyes.

“How can you expect me to balance this bleeding book on my head when my head is light for want of food, my lord, and how can you—?” She spied Alicia, gasped, then dropped into a perfect curtsy fit for the king, except for the fact that the child was dressed in only a night shift.

Andrew looked over his shoulder. His hazel eyes widened. With the grace of a dancer, he rose and bowed to his unexpected guest. “Lady Alicia, welcome to my humble dwelling. You are abroad early this morning.” He flushed a little. “You have trapped me in my lair.”

Alicia returned his smile. “Aye, Andrew. Now, do not stand there like a dolt. Introduce me to your charming companion.”

He extended his hand to the girl. “Good countess, I have the pleasure to present my protégée, Rosie of Southwark. Rosie, my dear, I have the honor to present you to Lady Alicia Cavendish, the Countess of Thornbury—and the keeper of my conscience.”

Rosie swooped another curtsy and clutched the songbook for dear life. “Good day, my lady,” she murmured more to the floor than to Alicia.

“Good day to you, my dear,” Alicia replied. The poor creature trembled despite the warmth inside the tent.

Andrew snapped his fingers. “Jeremy! A chair for the countess!” To Alicia, he remarked, “Methinks I have overlooked my squire’s training in certain areas. He should have given me fair warning of your arrival.”

The countess settled herself in the armchair. She took her time to arrange her skirts around her feet. “Do not berate the boy, Andrew. Tis not his fault that I moved faster than he.”

Andrew stepped in front of Rosie to shield her from the countess’ scrutiny. “Wine, my lady? Or ale? Mayhap
some bread with honey? A spiced apple with cream? Strawberries with cream? Pears with cream?”

Before Alicia could reply, Rosie muttered, “All of them with cream, my lord, for I am perishing with hunger.”

“Rosie!” he hissed out of the side of his mouth.

Alicia lifted her fan to cover her smile behind its plumes. It was worth going abroad early this hot dusty morning just to see Andrew so flustered. “I should think that bread, butter, honey and some light ale would be delightful.”

Her host barked to his squire, “Jeremy, to the cook tent post haste.”

Alicia held up her hands. “Fetch enough for two, Jeremy. I do so enjoy to have company when I eat.”

Andrew waved the boy out of the tent. “Be gone, maltworm!”

Thoroughly enjoying herself at Andrew’s expense, Alicia again held up her hand to stop the squire’s departure. “And some spiced apples, methinks. Tell me, Rosie, are you partial to spiced apples or baked pears?”

Rosie peeked around Andrew’s broad shoulders. Her green eyes were simply enormous. “Both, so please you, my lady.”

Andrew fidgeted. “Rosie! Retire and get dressed!”

Alicia chuckled behind her fan. “Nay, Andrew, you have mistook my purpose and meaning. Tis
you
who must retire—outside, if you please. Twill do you a world of good to shave and break your fast in the fresh air.”

He looked aghast. “But, Lady Alicia—!”

She shot him a no-nonsense look. Even her grown sons quailed before one of those expressions. It gratified her to see that she had not yet lost her power over her husband’s former squire. “Shoo, Andrew! Out! I did not
come to banter pleasantries with you but to have some serious conference with your Rosie.”

Jeremy snickered but his master’s glare silenced the boy. The squire bolted out of the tent. Andrew mustered his best smile and bowed to Alicia.

“As you wish, dear lady, but you do realize that I will probably become the laughingstock of my immediate neighbors when they see that I have been routed from my domicile and must content myself to gnaw stale bread crusts under the blazing sun and in full view of every jackanapes who might happen to stroll by.”

Alicia nodded. “Of course, Andrew. You will survive the experience, I warrant, and will turn it into a jest or two—at my expense, no doubt.”

For a brief moment, his expression grew sober. “Never would I hold you up to ridicule, my lady. My life upon it.”

His heartfelt loyalty pleased the countess. She promised herself not to chide him too much for he had a good heart, even if his ways were extremely worldly. “I am glad to hear it. Now, away with you. Rosie, draw up that stool and sit by me. I promise that I will not bite you.”

The girl placed the book carefully on one of the chests. “Never thought you would, my lady,” she murmured. She fetched the stool.

Andrew looked at them, then gave a deep sigh of regret. “Two beautiful women within my own tent, and I must be sent away?”

Alicia smiled behind the feathers again. “Aye, Andrew. Twill not be for long. Then I shall bore you to death with my company.”

A wry smile wreathed his lips. “I had thought you might. Therefore, I will go—but not far, lest you might
need me for something. Enjoy your breakfast. Rosie, mind your manners.”

She nodded several times. “Aye, my lord. I will try.”

With another exaggerated bow, Andrew finally departed. Rosie shifted on her seat and twisted her fingers in her lap.

Alicia regarded the nervous girl. “Methinks that you find yourself in a confusing state and do not know which way the wind will blow next,” she remarked in a soft voice.

Rosie sighed. “Aye, tis the nut and core of it, my lady.”

Alicia nodded. “I can understand that. I was once in your position.”

The girl blinked. “How now? Begging your pardon, my lady, but you could never have been a harlot.”

Alicia sucked in her breath. Her sister-in-law had not told her the exact particulars about Andrew’s latest adventure. She fanned herself while she contemplated this latest tidbit. “You don’t
look
like a whore.”

Rosie shrugged. “I am and am not, so to speak.” She wiped her hands on her shift. “Pray forgive me, my lady. Haint ever spoke to a countess afore. I mean, I
have never
spoke to a countess. Did I say that right?” Her beautiful eyes begged for approval.

The last shred of Alicia’s objections melted like ice in the hot June sun. “Aye, Rosie, you spoke that right well.”

The girl sighed with relief. “Thank you, my lady. Sir Andrew would scratch out another penny from my slate if he thought I said something improper.” She grinned again.

Alicia was too stunned by the girl’s smile to ask her
what she had meant by pennies and slate. For a brief moment, Rosie had. looked startling familiar.

Just then, Jeremy returned bearing a cloth-covered platter. He placed it on the table next to the women, then lifted off the cover with a small flourish. The mouthwatering aroma of fresh-baked bread filled the air. He poured two mugs of cool ale from the pitcher.

Alicia bestowed a warm smile of approval on the boy. “Splendid, Jeremy. Now go serve your master and keep him happy until I call.”

The squire nodded in a respectful manner. “Aye, my lady.” He backed out of the tent.

Without waiting for Alicia to give her permission to begin, Rosie grabbed her bread and honey as if it might disappear at any moment. Alicia sipped her ale and nibbled on a strawberry while she watched Rosie devour her breakfast. Alicia’s feeling of familiarity grew stronger. Rosie’s profile, the tilt of her nose, the way she held her mug—all reminded her of a dear, long-dead friend.

Alicia waited until the girl had slacked her hunger before she continued her questions. “How is it you came to be in the stews of Southwark? Your accent tells me that you were not born in London.”

Rosie answered in between bites of a large strawberry. “Nay, my lady. I come from Stoke Poges. My foster father, God rot him, sold me to a bawdmaster for five shillings. Tis more money than he ever saw since—” She stopped suddenly and pressed her lips together.

On the scent of something interesting, Alicia sat up straighter. “My knowledge of the southern part of England is sketchy. Where is Stoke Poges?”

Rosie licked a driblet of cream from her fingers.
“Nearby Windsor town. I can walk there betwixt dawn and dinner.”

Alicia gripped the ivory handle of her fan. Fenderwick lay only a few miles from Windsor. Dearest Margaret had eked out her loveless life inside the stone walls of that cheerless estate. “Who were your real parents, my dear?” she asked with an encouraging smile.

Rosie shrugged. “Never knew. Father Gregory found me on the altar steps of Saint Giles’ Church at Stoke Poges. He gave me to the Barstows to raise—along with their geese.”

Alicia quelled her rising excitement. Surely this changeling waif couldn’t be the same child that Margaret had borne her secret lover all those years ago? “And how old are you?” she asked.

Rosie shrugged again. “I cannot count beyond my fingers, Lady Alicia, but my foster mother said she got me at the turning of the century during the harvest time.” She made a face. “My foster father said I was a poor harvest for all the trouble I gave him, but he only said that after the money stopped coming.”

Alicia felt a little light-headed. She sipped her ale and did a quick calculation in her head. Margaret had confided her pregnancy to Alicia at the court’s Eastertide festivities in 1500. Since Alicia was also pregnant with Guy at the time, Margaret found an understanding ear. Alicia had welcomed Margaret’s friendship and had even helped to shield her swelling condition from the watchful eyes and wagging tongues of the bored courtiers. Rosie was the right age. “What money?”

The girl rolled a large strawberry in the thick cream. “Father Gregory found a gold sovereign in my hand, or so he said. Every year after that, he found another coin on the altar steps on the anniversary of the day when he
had found me. Said it was conscience money from my parents.” She popped the whole fruit in her mouth, chewed it, and swallowed before she continued. “The money stopped just when I began to grow my paps. That’s when Barstow moved me into the barn. Said I wasn’t good enough to live under the same roof with Christian folk because I was a bastard.”

Alicia detected a waver in the girl’s voice. A knot formed in her own throat. Margaret had died of a chill and fever in the winter of 1512, having finally succumbed to the neglect and indifference of her cold husband, Gilbert. Her spirit had already died when her lover died of the plague shortly before she had given birth to their daughter.

Alicia sent a joyful prayer of thanksgiving to heaven. After all this time, here was Margaret’s lost child—if Rosie truly was. Alicia needed to be sure. She buttered a piece of bread and remarked, “I know exactly how you feel, Rosie. I am a bastard too.”

Rosie choked on her ale. She stared wide-eyed at Alicia. “Ye jest with me,” she gasped. “Ye…
you
are a grand lady and a countess as well.”

Alicia shook her head. “Tis true nevertheless. I was born out of wedlock to a great lord and his mistress. The difference between us is that my foster father loved me like a true daughter, and my real father had left me a goodly dowry. I was raised in a goldsmith’s shop in the city of York until I wed my husband. We had been betrothed at a young age when my Thomas had not been expected to succeed to the earldom of Thornbury. I am a countess purely through an accident of fate.”

Rosie didn’t speak for several minutes while she mulled over Alicia’s startling revelation. Alicia wondered what the girl would say if she knew that Alicia’s
real father had been Great Harry’s grandfather, King Edward IV. Some secrets were best left untold.