At His Command-Historical Romance Version (21 page)

He’d gone to great lengths to save her. If Nicholas found out what she had been doing, would he still care for her?

It had started out so simply when she overheard Belinda reading that letter. All she’d wanted to do was assist the cause she believed in. What harm could there be in copying a few documents for York? But there had been another request, and another.

Nicholas would be horrified if he knew. Nicholas, who had rescued her. Who cared for her. Who believed what she did not, both in his faith and his politics.

“How did you manage this?”

“Cromwell did it. He sent Margaret a message saying she had no right to force you to wed as you aren’t the king’s ward but a widow with properties in your own right. In addition, he convinced her that she and Henry need the money you’d pay as much or more as they need the alliance. He stated the obvious, that they could find Bourchier another bride to bind the houses. In a way, I think Margaret was impressed that you dared defy her will. Not many people risk going against the wishes of the king and queen.”

Amice wasn’t proud, just so very relieved that she wouldn’t have to marry, at least the latest candidate. She’d bought some time. But she owed her cousin yet another debt. And she owed Nicholas.

“You’re here…with me.”

He smiled and took her hand. Any connection to him was welcome. Too welcome.

“I’m still your protector. Your champion,” he said.

Amice pulled her hand free and turned her head. She couldn’t face the goodness in his eyes. But she lacked the strength to explain. Lacked the courage. “What happens now?”

“When you feel up to it, you’re to have another meeting with the queen. That is, if she doesn’t give birth; the babe is expected at any time. The queen has returned you to your former status. Things are as they were.”

She couldn’t agree. The days of utter solitude, darkness and silence except for the rats had changed her. Hardened her. She knew what it was to have absolutely nothing, to suffer deprivation, which made her more determined than ever to achieve her dreams.

The aid to York would stop. England mattered naught to her now. The huge causes Nicholas espoused and in which she’d come to believe couldn’t help her gain what she desired. Peace. She could battle herself, fight her own civil war, no longer.

“Nicholas. I can’t thank you enough for your assistance. But we mustn’t be alone again.” She drew in a slow breath to keep from crying. “Being with you makes me want things we can’t have. Makes me want…. But we have no future.”

“I thought we agreed that life is too short—”

“We did. You know how much I want to be with you, how much I care for you. Yet at the same time, it’s torture. Too hard.” She had to be strong, even as she looked him in the eye, saw the hurt on his face. “The queen has restored my position, I think in part to save face. So I’m going to build on my disgrace and ask to be sent home. I won’t be a reminder to her of all that has happened. My hope is that Margaret will accept some of my lands as the fine for my freedom.”

Margaret would gain some of Edwin’s properties and revenues, which England sorely needed but meant nothing to Amice. She’d never seen most of them. All she wanted was to live at and care for Castle Rising. Her personal peace of mind and the welfare of the villagers were all that mattered to her now.

“I see.” His face was hard. “I hope you feel better soon. Godspeed.”

He rose and walked out of her room, closing the door behind him.

“Farewell,” she whispered.

What had she done? She had sent away the man she loved. For his own good, so he wouldn’t fail his duty to Henry.

A few days ago, she wouldn’t have been able to leave him, the heart of her heart. Now, embittered by her unjust punishment, she could no longer succumb to feelings. Those who loved were weak, opening themselves to hurt and anguish. She was a woman with responsibilities, who no longer harbored fantasies of romance. She would depend on herself from now on.

The constant ache in her chest now was far worse than the pain of making the most of every stolen moment, of wondering when she might see him again…. How would she bear not seeing him?

As Chaucer had said in
Troilus and Criseyde
,
“As tyme hem hurt, a tyme doth hem cure.” She had to believe that.

The next day, she felt well enough to spend some time writing. But she didn’t want to finish the letter due to York about why he hadn’t been called to attend council meetings. The stakes were getting higher and higher the longer Henry remained ill.

But after setting out her ink and quills, she opened the small chest which contained her manuscript. Reaching in to pull out the pages, she grasped hundreds of scraps instead. They slipped through her fingers. Someone had destroyed her work.

“No!” As tears splashed on the tiny, useless snippets, she noticed they were all of a size. Whoever had ripped the vellum had taken the time to tear countless hours of her labor into neat little squares. Who would do such a hateful thing? Who could invade her privacy, open her chests?

All the more reason to go home, away from gossip, rumor, and evil deeds. From the man she couldn’t have.

Even in those darkest of hours in the Tower, she’d held back all but a few tears. Now, it seemed as though a river surged from her eyes. She cried for every problem she faced, from her hopeless feelings for Nicholas, being away from Castle Rising, York against Lancaster, to the uncertainty of her future.

And the ruination of her writing. How would she find out? She’d only mentioned once to Nicholas that she wrote, but he wouldn’t do this. She wasn’t aware anyone else knew. How would she walk the halls, go to meals, without wondering if every glance, every smirk in her direction was the perpetrator? She shuddered.

Worse, if someone had discovered her personal writing, could they uncover her work for York?

Two days later, chaos reigned in the queen’s lying-in chamber. Fluttering matrons surrounded the queen, who gasped with her pains.

Amice had lost her chance to speak with Margaret. For now.

The midwife, tall, thin and grey haired, elbowed her way through the throng. Matrons offered bits of advice as she bent over her patient.

“Silence. Don’t you know loud noises can bother the baby? Where are the musicians I asked for? Where is the honey, the hot water?”

Various women jumped to do her bidding as she barked assignments.

Amice huddled in the back of the room. She’d attended to prove all was as it had been. She so wanted her own children. Nicholas’s children. No. She wouldn’t wish for a future that couldn’t be. But how to stop?

As the hours passed, Margaret grew increasingly restless and fretful. The women, tasks completed long ago, now waited silently. They wouldn’t allow themselves to even consider what would happen if the baby didn’t survive. Margaret’s pregnancy had been the only hope for months. England with an incapacitated king and no heir? A possibility too horrible to discuss. A land without a king. Just like the story of King Arthur, when he took ill after discovering Guinevere’s infidelity with Lancelot.

At last the babe was born. England had a prince.

After cutting the cord, the midwife held the baby high before clearing its nose and mouth. Cheers and laughter filled the room, squelched by the midwife’s loud “SSSSHHHHH!” She quickly bathed the boy. All watched in silence, as, following an ancient tradition, she rubbed the newborn’s palate with honey and wiped its tongue with hot water so it would grow up to be well spoken.

The godmother, Anne, duchess of Buckingham, stood ready to take the baby to be baptized. With the high rate of infant mortality, even seemingly healthy babies were baptized as soon as possible. As the midwife tended to Margaret, Anne led the procession.

Pages ran ahead to summon the godfather and the rest of the men. The ladies followed, eager to spread the joyful news. Church bells rang, a Te Deum was sung. Edward was wrapped in a mantle studded with pearls and precious stones with soft linen lining to protect his delicate skin.

Amice forced herself to focus on the baptism by Henry’s confessor and not meet Nicholas’s gaze. After the ceremony, all except the queen attended a feast held in his honor.

In the midst of the celebration, a page approached. With a summons from the queen. She could feel Nicholas watching her as she exited the hall, but didn’t look back.

On her way back to Margaret’s chamber, she wished she’d eaten something to quell her jumping stomach.

Her heart thudded in her chest. She curtseyed. “You sent for me, Your Grace?”

“How was the feast?” Queen Margaret sat in her bed, dressed in a fresh robe, propped amidst a pile of pillows. The room felt as oppressive and close as it had during the long childbirth.

Surely Margaret hadn’t summoned her, the day of her child’s long-awaited birth, for a rendition of the foodstuffs served. “Very joyous, Your Grace. And filled with good wishes for you and the prince.”

“I doubt ’twas as grand as befits a royal birth, but it was no doubt an improvement over recent fare.” Margaret stirred and grimaced. “Sit.” She indicated a stool near the bed.

When Amice complied, Margaret continued, “I called you here to discuss duty, which you clearly don’t understand. Your stubbornness is inexcusable. Who do you think you are? I thought to leave you to rot in the Tower, but was persuaded otherwise by your friends.

“I have a son, someone new to fight for. The people refuse to accept me as one of them though I’ve appealed to them time and again. They remain convinced that I think only of my native land, France.”

Amice twisted her fingers in her lap, then stopped because she didn’t want to seem nervous. She had no idea what she was expected to do or say.

“I want you to listen carefully. Due to my father’s sorry finances, I served as my own dowry.” Margaret sighed, clearly pained by the memory. “Which was a two-year truce between England and France. I had to wait nearly a year for the wedding. A wedding by proxy, where the Duke of Suffolk, my first English friend, stood in for Henry.

“Did you know Henry was once engaged to another woman?”

Amice couldn’t contain a gasp of surprise. She could see where this was going but couldn’t stop the queen from driving her point home. “No, Your Grace, I didn’t know.”

“His first betrothed, the Count of Armagnac’s daughter, would have brought significant wealth and two French provinces. Henry and his advisors decided he should marry me instead, convinced that my personality and relationship to the king of France were more important than money, no matter how sorely needed. Henry had to pawn his jewels and household plate to pay for the marriage and the coronation.

“I had to leave my country. The life I’d known and wanted. When my ship reached England, I was so sick Suffolk had to carry me to shore. I wondered if God had tried to send me a message through illness and horrid weather that I should return to France.”

Amice squirmed. Each word pounded her head like a hammer.

The queen stared at Amice for an interminable moment. “Do you understand?”

“Your Grace, I….”

“Tell me why I bothered to divulge my private tale to you.”

Amice’s heart sank so hard she thought she could feel it land in her stomach. She knew, and the message ate holes of guilt in her soul the way moths devoured woolens. What reply wouldn’t make her seem spoiled and incredibly selfish? What reply would commend the queen’s sacrifices, yet free her from the need to make her own?

“I believe you want me to see that we don’t always get to choose our course,” she said. “That others have the power to choose the path we follow, even a queen’s, and we must make the best of whatever follows.”

“An excellent start. Go on.” Queen Margaret nodded.

She knew her cheeks burned. Hadn’t she suffered enough already? Her voice came out as a whisper. “And who am I to refuse to marry when those so far above me have had to endure so much?”

“Think on that. Now, what I need is a goodly amount of rest. You may go.”

Amice curtseyed and left, her heart heavy as lead.

Chapter 14

With a shake of his head, Nicholas ripped down another of the hateful poems impugning the prince’s birth that had been posted in many public places. His cadre of men roaming the streets couldn’t remove the missives fast enough to keep vicious gossip from flying through castles and countryside. As soon as he learned who was behind them, the queen would toss the culprits into the Tower and throw away the key.

As he passed the kitchen after leaving the stables, Nicholas overheard the cook talking with the ale supplier. The dark grey sky matched his mood.

“I hear tell it’s not Henry’s babe. The father be Somerset.” The supplier shook his bald head as he hauled a barrel off his cart.

“No, no, no.” The portly cook wiped his hands on his apron and leaned forward. “The real prince died in childbirth and they put some other brat in his place, so England would ’ave an heir.”

The alemonger unloaded another barrel. “Well, I was at St. Paul’s Cross when the Earl of Warwick spoke. He said Margaret’s adultery produced this baby, and he should know. Henry should have married one of his own. Nothing good comes of dealings with the French.”