At His Command-Historical Romance Version (22 page)

Cook nodded. “Either way we’re ta ’ave some unknown bastard as heir to the throne. I doubt Parliament will stand for that.”

Nicholas could stand no more. Putting an end to one conversation wouldn’t stop the rumors, but he had to do what little he could.

Maybe the truth could become its own rumor.

“You there, what kind of talk is that?” he asked. “You know nothing of it. Margaret’s women witnessed the birth of the true prince.”

The alemonger must not have known who Nicholas was or he’d have remained silent. “Aw, they’d say whatever the queen told ’em to. They want to keep their places and their heads, don’t they? Who do you think be the father?”

The cook hastily turned back toward the kitchens without a farewell.

Nicholas sighed. If he couldn’t even convince one Englishman, how were they to persuade the whole country that Edward was the true prince, born of Henry and Margaret?

“They say the king refuses to recognize the baby.” The alemonger heaved a third barrel. “Wouldn’t even look at ’im! Can’t be the real prince, not if ’e be not known by the king himself.”

Nicholas wasn’t about to tell the man the king didn’t recognize anyone at all, and for that reason the baby hadn’t even been presented yet. Or that fears the king wouldn’t be able to fulfill the long-standing tradition of acknowledging the child as his own were very real. No official announcement of the king’s illness had been made.

“Be on your way. If I hear you spreading more tales, your position will be in danger,” Nicholas said.

The man seemed unconvinced, but moved on with his clattering cart of barrels.

Things were no better among Henry’s nobles. Margaret had possession of England’s heir. They couldn’t let her keep him for long, for that would give her too much power. They didn’t want her ruling through her son as regent.

Nicholas wished he and Amice could leave court behind and live in peace at Castle Rising. But the way events were progressing, he’d be fortunate if anything he desired came to pass.

Amice spent the week after Edward’s birth in a frenzy of activity waiting on the queen. She’d seen Nicholas in passing, but they hadn’t spoken. Each time, she pushed aside the ache in her heart. The ache of missing him and wanting to be with him, as much a part of her as the need to breathe. She couldn’t free herself of the longing. Whenever she had time, she threw herself into her writing with renewed vigor.

“Amice, you’ve been cooped up in here for hours,” Ginelle said as she entered the tiny sitting room. “It’s late. And freezing. You’ve forgotten to have firewood sent up again.” She carried a stack of freshly washed linens into the bedroom.

Amice stretched, easing her stiff back. She blew on her fingers and rubbed her hands together. “I don’t notice the time or cold when I write.”

Ginelle stood in the doorway. “When will you finish?”

“Soon. Fortunately, I remember enough of what was destroyed to recreate large portions. Rewriting helped me improve some sections. You’ll appreciate the chapter on recipes.” She re-inked her pen and began to write.

Amice wouldn’t discuss her other project with Ginelle—copying documents for York. Despite her recent resolve to focus on her own needs, she’d realized if the wrong group was in power, her properties and people would suffer. There might be heavier tithes, higher food costs or worse, the loss of many of her able-bodied men to war. So when Belinda appeared at her door with another assignment, she hadn’t refused as planned and had quickly delivered the letter she hadn’t wanted to finish.

Amice was glad she’d broken off her friendship with Nicholas. Glad he was out of her life. Yes, she was.

“You should get out more. You work for the queen, then sit here thinking about home and Sir Nicholas.” Ginelle crossed her arms.

Amice opened her mouth to reply.

“Don’t deny it.”

She couldn’t. She had to repair the tears imprisonment had made in her heart and soul.

“I’m worried about you. It’s as though you make your way through each day without really living it. When do you think Margaret will decide whether to choose another husband for you or accept your coin?”

Amice cringed. “I hope before the end of the forty days she, as a new mother, must spend in her chambers.”

If she had to wait until the churching ceremony scheduled for November 18, she wouldn’t be able to endure the uncertainty. The suspense.

“Have you spoken to Sir Nicholas?”

Amice walked to the window, looking down on the few who’d braved the cold. She didn’t know how to express her feelings, they made no sense. When she was with him, even just glancing at him in a crowded room, a life without him in it seemed impossible and unbearable. But if she could manage to stay away, she could relish her memories without worrying if each time together would be their last. Or feel guilt over keeping secret her work for York. She hadn’t lied to Nicholas, nor had she told him the whole truth.

“Nothing can come of it, were I free to choose.” How could she love someone so different? Despite her need for him, she wouldn’t want him to suffer or live less of a life than he dreamed. “He remains Henry’s man. I support York.”

More with each passing day. Henry had been incapacitated too long. To avoid civil war, the country needed a strong, decisive king. By birth, wealth and power, York was the logical choice. Yet the queen wanted her son to rule. But many a babe died in infancy. Even if he thrived, he’d need a regent, as his father had.

Being on opposite sides could result in disaster for her or Nicholas. At the moment, she was on the dangerous side. She could be imprisoned again, for good this time. If York prevailed, would he punish Henry’s staunch supporters?

“It’s clear you care for each other.”

“So we do.” The thought of Nicholas confessing his feelings warmed her. “But how can what we share surmount our differences?” She shook her head.

“There you go again, gnawing over things you cannot change, things that may never come to pass. Mayhap you should devote your thoughts to things you can change.” Ginelle heaved a huge sigh. “If you wish to remain in here and sulk, that’s your choice. I can bring you a tray.”

Focus on the things you can change
. Perhaps that was the solution.

“No, I’ll come down for the meal.” If Nicholas was there, at least she could see him. Maybe exchange a few words. Maybe arrange a time to meet, though the parting would be painful as ripping a dressing off a wound.

She forced herself to return to work, making an exact copy of the map Belinda had brought. The pen made scratching noises as she carefully outlined a road on the parchment. Amice didn’t know what the documents were for, nor did she want to. She was content, for the moment, to work alone, on the outskirts of York’s plans.

Belinda came to pick up the map and copy, her fair skin flushed pink and she bounced on her toes. “Amice, Amice! You won’t believe what York wants you to do now, right away. He wants you to write a poem.”

Amice paused in the midst of handing over the rolled parchments. “What?” she asked, incredulous. “York wants me to write one of those scandalous poems everyone is talking about?”

Belinda sat on the edge of Amice’s table and spread her brocade skirts with one long-fingered hand. “Yes. He gave me some examples. Quite shocking, this about Edward not being the true prince. And look at this one, ‘On Popular Discontent at Disasters in France.’”

Amice was confused. “How did York find out I could write original material?”

“Well, I told him, of course.” She leaned close, as if to share a confidence. “He mentioned that he sought a new writer, and I thought of you. Aren’t you pleased? If York approves, his men will distribute and post yours. Just think of how many will read your words. This is your chance to be a real writer.”

Amice tapped her fingers on the desk. This would mean greater involvement in York’s affairs. Thus far, she had been more scribe than traitor, though others might not agree. Writing her own material in opposition to the throne would prove a greater risk. Yet having original work she believed in disseminated was one of her fondest dreams.

Focus on what you can change.

She couldn’t have Nicholas. She couldn’t go home. But she could have this.

She could no longer walk the fine line separating king and duke. It was time to take a stand, though a cautious one. To do so, she’d have to trust Belinda even more.

“I’ll do it. But no one else can know I’m the author. The poems must be anonymous.” It was enough for her to know her work was read. That she aided the cause in which she believed.

She needed a new challenge, something to focus on. So she’d write some poems. Those she’d heard of and seen were full of lies and half-truths. But hers would be different. Hers would tell the truth.

“Very well,” Belinda agreed with a sly smile, making Amice wonder how she planned to use this to her advantage. “How soon can you have the first one ready?”

“I’ll work on it now. Though I’ve never tried poetry.” Amice indicated the examples Belinda had brought. “‘Ballad on the Death of the Duke of Suffolk,’” she read. “Return tomorrow afternoon. I’ll complete at least one by then.”

Belinda left, still smiling.

Amice picked up her quill, idly caressing the soft feather. Instead of rhymes about Edward or the king, Nicholas worked his way back into her thoughts. What would he do if he found out? Her involvement widened the gap between them. She didn’t know if even the power of love could build a bridge over it.

She couldn’t gnaw on that now. York needed her help.

She began to write.

England’s babe, or is he yet

Proof of someone else’s get?

Just who is his mother sweet?

Surely not our Marguerite.

York laughed with what seemed like genuine enthusiasm as he read the final lines of the poem to the others in his great hall. All were finishing a sumptuous meal of suckling pig and cherry pottage.

“Tiny daisies in his hair

Do not mean he came from there.

Perhaps we should ask the source

Who’d tell lies of her own, of course.”

After the laughter died down, he said, “Belinda, this is wonderful. To the point, yet with humor. No one can accuse us of lying with this one, either. Clever approach.

“I had no idea you were so talented. Quite astute, to incorporate Margaret’s badge, the marguerite.”

Belinda preened. Her gamble was paying off. Why shouldn’t she take the credit and increase her worth to York? Amice had requested anonymity, after all.

She smiled her slow, cat-like smile. “The marguerite represents fidelity in love. I’m so pleased you like my words, milord.”

“You can be sure I’ll have more work for you.”

“I look forward to serving you,” she replied. “In any way I can.”

Harry hoped he, the new scullion, appeared to be working diligently. Washing dishes, at his age and rank. The clatter of the kitchen made his head ache.

“Are you trying to rub a hole in that? You’ve been here for hours…look at that pile yet undone,” the Steward of the Kitchen reprimanded.

Harry bit back a sharp retort and plunged the platter into the barrel of water in front of him. “My pardon, sir!” He bowed his head to hide the non-subservient gleam in his eye.

“I can find another to fill your place soon enough if you don’t work hard. Hmph.”

The steward went back to supervising the cook’s preparation of the main meal of the day, featuring aigredouncy. The honey-glazed sliced chicken rolled in mustard, rosemary and pine nuts would follow a pastry tart filled with plum, quince, apple, pear, basil and rue. Not that he’d get to eat any of that fine fare. Not a lowly scullion such as he.

Harry tossed a bowl into the water with a satisfying splash and grabbed another.

“By marrying Amice I could get Edwin’s lands for my life, at least, if not for our children. Why wouldn’t she have me?”

The bowl in his hand did not respond. “She’d never go against the Church, that’s why, because we share a forbidden bond of affinity. It pained me to lock her up, but how else could I persuade her? I trusted her when she agreed to marry me. But she betrayed me.”

Freedom, even as a servant, was better than prison. “I took a horse, and followed Amice.”

Did the drying cloth dare reproach him?

“No, that wasn’t stealing. Amice’s property should be mine, too.”

But how to get her to consent to wed? A forced marriage could be annulled.

He’d heard of a drug that would dull the senses. If that drug worked, he could control her.

The repetitive, lowly, backache-inducing labors of the only job he could get tested his mettle and his temper. It would be worth it. Soon.

“I’ve only seen her once since I got here.” He closed his eyes. “Like a miracle…a vision in the early morning mist. The way she looked at Sir Nicholas by the stables….”

That afternoon, he’d decided to surprise her. At first he was disappointed that she wasn’t in her room. Then he noticed a writing desk with a carved metal latch on a large coffer. Excited and afraid at the possibility of discovery, he opened the lid. He tried to read the pages, but could pick out only a few words. That she could write better than he!