The Rose at Twilight Page 2

  His look sharpened, and she gave him full marks for insight. He said gravely, “She was distressed, my lady, for she believed that although you might not have been allowed to leave Drufield Manor at once when word reached Lord Drufield of a Tudor victory, your father would soon command your return to Wolveston Hazard, and she worried lest harm should befall you on your journey. My men and I were dispatched at once. We rode here first, since we might otherwise have missed you, and when I discovered the situation at the castle, I was glad we had done so. I trust there has been no sickness at Drufield.”

  “No.”

  Before either could say more, a youth on a light chestnut gelding drew in close to Merion. “Sir,” he said deferentially, “them clouds yonder be a-boiling up black and fiercelike again, I’m thinking. Best we get the ladies under cover.”

  Merion looked to the west where the clouds were indeed stirring ominously. He nodded. “We have pitched tents at the foot of the castle hill, my lady. We will take shelter there for the night and leave for London at sunup.”

  “Master Merion, I cannot—”

  “Beg pardon, m’lady,” said the young man at his side, “but he be Sir Nicholas Merion. My meistr be a knight banneret, his pennant tails cut off by the king hisself at Bosworth Field.”

  “Hush, Tom,” said Merion gently. “Lady Alys did not know.”

  The younger man looked indignantly at the banner snapping damply in the breeze, then back at his master, but something in Merion’s expression kept him from blurting his opinions aloud.

  “I thought,” Alys said, “that your banner was merely tattered, sir. For that matter, I suppose I thought it your master’s banner, not your own, for your spurs are muddied and look black rather than white or gold as any knight’s should be. I ask your pardon, however, if I have offended you.”

  “You have not,” he said. “I do not expect a young Saesnes like yourself to know about such things as banners and spurs.”

  “What is that, a Saesnes?”

  “Only an Englishwoman,” he replied.

  Annoyed as much by the unfamiliar term as by having had her knowledge challenged, she said stiffly, “You ought to have spoken of yourself properly, sir. A knight, particularly a knight banneret, does not call himself simply Nick Merion.”

  He grinned, the sudden change of expression altering his countenance dramatically, bringing light and merriment to his eyes and softening the harshness of his features. “I was told that highborn English girls are meek and soft-spoken, mistress, that they serve as near slaves in houses not their own until a marriage is arranged for them. At that time, or so I was told, they go from their foster home to their husband’s home with little change in the order of things. Where did you foster, that they allowed you to retain your sharp tongue to so ripe an age?”

  Alys stiffened and felt her stomach tighten painfully. “At Middleham, sir, for my mother was kin to Anne Neville. Later I was sent to Sheriff Hutton and from thence to Drufield Manor.”

  “Three houses? Could none of them tame you, mistress?” As he spoke, he turned and signed to his men to fall in behind them.

  Alys would have been perfectly willing to let him ride on ahead of her, but when he looked at her, clearly waiting, she urged her mount alongside his, saying nothing.

  “Well, Saesnes-bach?”

  She wondered about the extra syllable, but the softness of his tone and the twinkle in his eyes kept her from demanding its definition. “I did not think you really required an answer to so impertinent a question, sir. ’Twould scarce become me to reply.”

  “Must I ask your woman to enlighten me?” he asked, gesturing toward Jonet, who rode directly behind them in the company of another of his men, a large one. He kept glancing at the plump little woman as if he feared she might tumble from her horse.

  Alys said, “Truly, Sir Nicholas, no one has tried to tame me. I was quite happy at Middleham. I removed to Sheriff Hutton two summers ago when King Richard commanded that his lady wife join him in London. That is all.”

  “If you were in service to the usurper’s wife, why did you not accompany her to London?”

  “I do not know,” Alys replied honestly, forcing herself to overlook his use of the word “usurper” to refer to Anne’s Dickon. “I was told only that my father did not wish me to go. The matter had been decided before I knew of it.”

  “Odd,” said Merion. “I had thought the ordering of a young woman’s future lay with the lord who fostered her. Whom did you serve at Sheriff Hutton? The Princess Elizabeth?”

  Alys grimaced. “She was not known by that title when she came to us, and I had been at Sheriff Hutton a good while before her. The Earl of Lincoln was in residence there, but the king was still my liege lord, and liege as well to Elizabeth and Neddie—which is how we do call the Earl of Warwick.”

  “Then why did you leave? I had thought you must have displeased the princess in some way, but mayhap that was naught but my reading of your tone when you spoke of her earlier.”

  Alys glanced around, but none of their large escort was paying them any heed, with the exception of Jonet, who was, she knew, listening avidly to whatever she could hear. “I displeased Elizabeth,” she admitted, “but she had no authority. My Lord Lincoln dislikes dissension, however, and thought it better for us to be apart.” She would not—indeed, she could not—tell him about the scenes with Elizabeth. She could tell no one. They did her no credit. She added hastily, “I had hoped to return to Middleham at that time to serve the Countess of Warwick, my Lady Anne’s mother, for she had always been kind to me, but I was sent to Drufield Manor instead.”

  Merion glanced at her but did not press her for more details about her relationship with Elizabeth. Instead he said, “And whom did you serve at Drufield Manor? I know little about your English nobility and do not recognize that seat.”

  “Lady Drufield,” she said quietly, bringing a vision of that stout and querulous dame into her mind’s eye. Looking at Merion, she encountered an expression of curiosity that was at once impertinent and yet compassionate.

  He said blandly, “Not a woman whom you would desire to recommend to the Holy Church for sainthood?”

  Alys choked. “Sir, you must not say such things!” She looked quickly around again, finding it well nigh impossible to stifle the laughter that threatened to overcome her. When she looked back at him from beneath lowered lashes, he was grinning again. “Truly, sir, you speak blasphemy.”

  “Not so. I believe I speak the truth. Will you deny that you heartily disliked Lady Drufield?”

  “I cannot. She is precisely the sort of woman your informant must have had in mind when he spoke to you of English ways, for she would gladly have made me her slave. Nothing I did could please her. If I sat reading, she would berate me for idleness or for neglecting my prayers. If I wished to walk, she would say I wanted only to shirk my other duties. Often she said I had been spoiled at Middleham and that she would mend my ways. Indeed, she was a dreadful woman, through and through.”

  “Harsh?”

  Alys nodded. “She spoke with a rod or the flat of her hand more often than not. There were other girls who suffered as much as I did, of course, though they had never fostered elsewhere and knew no other way. I had not been taught abject meekness from birth, you see, so my Lady Drufield thought it her duty to teach me. I … I wrote my father in March, begging him to let me come home. I was nearly eighteen then, after all.”

  “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.

  2

  INSIDE 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!”