The Rose at Twilight (10 page)

She struggled to control herself. “No, this towel is soaked through, and so is my bodice. I must put something else on, and I must dry my hair. He will blame you if I become ill again.”

“Nay, mistress, he willna,” Ian said. “He did say he kens weel it were nane o’ my doing. He’s a fair mon, is the master.”

She looked at him. “You like him.” When Ian nodded, she sniffed and said, “Well, I like him, too, when he is not being as stubborn as a”—She hesitated, because the saying was
as stubborn as a Scotsman,
and that would not do—“as any other Welshman,” she ended, eyeing him apologetically.

Ian smiled. “There disna be a Welshman breathing who’s as stubborn as me auld dad, mistress. Master did find yer comb and brush,” he added, holding the articles out to her before he set her bundles down. “He said I wasna tae linger.”

Taking the boar’s-bristle brush and tortoiseshell comb, she forced herself to ask the question, “How fares Mistress Hawkins?”

“They canna wake her,” Ian said gently.

Dropping comb and brush, Alys rubbed the tears from her cheeks, jumped to her feet, and rushed to the opening.

Ian barred her way. “You canna gae to her, mistress. I’m tae stop you, an you try.”

She stared desperately up at him, making no attempt now to stem her tears. “I must.”

“Nay, ye mustna. Goorthfan Gower’s looking after ’er.”

She blinked, bewildered. “Who?”

Ian flushed. “That’s how it sounds when yon Welshmen say his name, mistress, though I niver heard the like, m’self. The big ’un. I ha’ heard Mistress Hawkins call him Hugh Gower, which be a sight easier tae say, but I darena call him so. She disna fancy him, but he did say he’d look after her at least till the herb wooman cooms, and belike till we depart, wi’ the dawnin’.”

“At dawn?” Alys was dismayed. “We cannot leave her!”

“Master said—”

“Fetch him!”

“But—”

“Do not argue, Ian. Fetch him. Now.” She yanked the damp towel from her head, letting the sodden mass of hair fall to her hips. Lifting her chin as she shoved wet strands back over her shoulders with her free hand, she said, “You tell him that not a step will I take outside this tent until I do speak with him. If I die of an ague through not getting out into the sun to dry my hair, the blame will rest squarely upon his shoulders.”

Ian left at once, and Alys paced the floor impatiently. There were no more tears. Crying would not help. She needed her wits about her if she was to convince Sir Nicholas to stay.

He came at once, and his mood was clearly precarious, for he was frowning and the first words out of his mouth were curtly spoken. “What is it? Why are you not yet out drying your hair? The sun will soon be too low to do you any good.”

“There is a breeze,” she told him. “My hair will dry.” Then, drawing a long breath, she said firmly, “Sir Nicholas, Ian tells me that you have decided we are to depart tomorrow. I have not yet regained my full strength, and in any case, I cannot possibly leave with Jonet still so ill.”

His mouth tightened. “We must go. The king will be in London by now and expects my lads to be close behind him. We are already days late leaving, and as it is, your state of health will prevent our traveling as rapidly as I should like.”

“But we cannot leave her! Who will look after her?”

“The herb woman will care for her. We cannot take her, my lady. She would carry the infection wherever we go.”

“I will not go without her, Sir Nicholas.”

“I have explained that you have no choice. The king—”

“I do not care a rap for your Tudor usurper. I love Jonet!”

“I can make allowance for your affection,” he said sternly, “but I warn you, have a care for how you speak of the king.”

“Why?” she cried, unable to stem her tears any longer. “Will you execute me for treason when I tell you I hate him?”

“Nage, mi geneth,”
he said more gently, “but ’tis a habit too dangerous for me to allow you to indulge yourself in it.”

“I do not know how you will stop me!” Dashing a hand across her eyes in an ineffective attempt to clear her vision, she added fiercely, “I won’t let you take me from her!”

Still blinded by tears, she did not see him move toward her, was not aware that he had done so until his hands came to rest upon her shoulders. Then, certain he meant to shake her, she braced herself, but he did not. Instead he did nothing at all for so long that she became aware of the warmth of his hands on her shoulders, the nearness of his large body to hers. Her breath caught in her throat, and her tears ceased.

The silence lengthened. She could smell the leather of his brigandine and hear muted sounds from the men outside, sounds that soon faded until she heard only his breathing. His hands tightened. She licked suddenly dry lips, and her hands moved of their own accord to his chest, where she felt the small, overlapping metal plates beneath the outer covering of his brigandine. A memory stirred of Neddie, expounding upon new-learned knowledge, trying to explain why the plates overlapped upward instead of downward—something to do with the way a man’s chest was formed—but Sir Nicholas’s chest, hard beneath her palms, was entirely too close to allow her mind to catch the fleeting memory. He still did not move or speak.

She darted a glance at his face and found his expression puzzling, for he was looking at her almost as though he had never seen her before. His lips were parted; his eyes, like deep-set dark gray pools in the dim light of the tent, had lost their harshness. But as the thought crossed her mind that he must be at a loss for what to say to her, he shifted his weight and the flintlike expression returned. Briefly, his grip on her shoulders tightened, bruising her; then she was free.

He said, “There is no point to continuing this conversation, for I must obey my king’s orders just as you must obey mine. Mistress Hawkins will remain behind. Has she family hereabouts?”

Alys nearly mentioned Davy, then remembering with regret that Sir Nicholas was the enemy, and the Tudor’s own man, she realized that she could not do so. “Her sister Mary lives in Doncaster, I think,” she said gruffly.

“Then we will arrange with the Bawtry monks to get word to her. That must suffice.” And with that, he was gone, leaving her to stare after him in dismay. Jonet’s sister was older. What if she had died? What if she was away or just could not come? And who would care for Jonet till Mary came? But she had no power over him. Though he had clearly weakened in those few brief seconds, she had no idea why he had done so, and it did not matter, anyway, because he had recollected himself all too soon.

She had to think, and the best way she could imagine to do so at the moment was to proceed with drying her hair. Removing the wet bodice, she found a simple red woolen loose gown in one of the bundles and slipped it over her head. Tying the ties at the neckline, she fastened a colorful tapestry bodice over it, lacing and tying it at the waist with gold cording. There was no need for girdle or belt, and the day was warm enough so that she needed no other wrap.

Outside, she found a sheltered place to sit near the cook fires, settled herself, and began to draw her brush slowly and carefully, as she had been taught, through her tangled, damp tresses. It was a tedious, difficult procedure, one she was accustomed to having someone else—usually Jonet—do for her, and soon her right arm was too tired to wield the brush. She rested it in her lap and wondered what on earth she would do on the journey, not to mention in London, without Jonet.

The breeze was gentle. It scarcely stirred her wet hair. She raised her brush again, not caring now about the new tears wetting her cheeks. She tried changing hands, attempting to brush with her left, but it was not even as strong as the right. After three strokes, she quit in frustration.

“Give me the brush,
mi geneth
,” Sir Nicholas said gently behind her, “or it will never be dry.”

She looked up in surprise. He had changed out of his mail chausses into tawny hose and leather buskins, but he still wore his brigandine, and though he had removed his sword and baldric, his dagger was suspended through a metal ring at the brigandine’s waist. Wordlessly, she handed him the brush, and if he was not as efficient as Jonet, he was stronger, and he made little work of drawing the brush through her long hair. She was certain he must have things he would rather be doing, but when she suggested that one of his men might replace him at the task, his response was brief, spoken with a curtness she had come to recognize as his way of saying he did not want to discuss the matter.

Her hair was still damp when the evening meal was served, but the night was warm, and she did not fear catching a chill. Before she retired to her bed, she plaited the tresses as Jonet always had, and if the job was not as neat, at least it was done. Alone in the empty tent, she listened to the sounds of the men in the camp, prayed for Jonet, and racked her brain for a way to convince Sir Nicholas to stay at Wolveston until Jonet was well or, God forbid, until she died; but, when morning came, Alys had not even thought of a way to convince him to let her see Jonet.

The camp awoke earlier than usual. Sir Nicholas wanted to be away by dawn’s light, and at that time of year, the dawn came almost on the heels of the dark. There was a fog, but he made it clear that he had no intention of allowing it to delay him.

Alys had no immediate chance to debate his decision with him, for he sent his squire and Ian to wake her.

“How fares Mistress Hawkins?” she demanded, sitting up and clutching the covering close about her.

“She still lives, mistress,” Tom said.

“Then I would see her,” Alys told him. “I’ll go at once.”

Ian said, “Nay, mistress, the master ha’ said you mun be ready when the others be, or he’ll coom hisself tae dress you.”

She did not doubt him, but the thought of simply riding off and leaving Jonet was nearly too much to bear. “I do not know how I shall get on without her,” she said, choking back tears.

Tom stammered, “
Meistr
knows you be not accustomed to looking after yourself, m’lady, and he did say we are to help you as much as you do let us—Ian and me—even though you be not accustomed to menservants in and out, like most folks be at home. He did say, in sooth, that you do be accustomed to bathing with only other womenfolk about.” His expression showed his doubt at such an unusual inclination for privacy.

She smiled wanly. “I was raised in a royal household, Tom, or as near as makes no difference. I was fostered at Middleham, the home of our late king when he was yet Duke of Gloucester and Lord of the North. Things were different there. But perchance your master will find a village woman to accompany me to London.”

He shook his head. “Many in the village do be sick, mistress, and he will allow none to go with us, for fear they will carry the sweat south.”

Ian added, “Like as not, a village wooman’d no be able tae keep up wi’ us, mistress. The Welshman rides swift.”

“But I have been ill,” she reminded him.

“Aye, but ye’re a bonny guid horsewooman, as we saw for ourselves, mistress. A village wooman—”

“Oh, take yourselves off,” Alys snapped, exasperated, “but mind, you tell your precious master that if he thinks he will force me to ride breakneck to the Tudor’s waiting arms, he had best think again, for if he tries it, I shall make it a point to expire on the way, if only for the pleasure of knowing my death will displease the usurper.” When both young men stared unhappily back at her, making no move to obey her command, she glared at them. “Go! Tell him!”

“Methinks,” Tom said cautiously, “that we shall tell him you are well nigh ready to depart, m’lady. I have no wish to measure my length upon the ground, and I have no doubt that if I were to speak so rudely to the
meistr
, that would be my fate.”

She looked at Ian.

His face, even in the gloomy light of the tent, appeared to have turned nearly the same bright red as his hair, but he said staunchly, “If ye do wish such a message taken to him, mistress, I will do yer bidding, though I have a mither and father at home in Pitlochery who will sairely miss their only son.”

She had been ready to tell him that she certainly wanted him to bear her message, but his mournful tone and the heavy sigh that accompanied his words made her bite her lip instead. She knew she was close to tears and had no wish for them to linger. “I would not endanger you, Ian. I will tell him myself.”

Relieved, they left her to dress herself, and that was an ordeal, for her traveling dress laced up the back. It seemed as if wherever she turned, her desperate need for Jonet was there to aggrieve her. Twenty minutes later, when Ian called to her to ask if she needed assistance, she replied tearfully and without the least thought for modesty, “Indeed, I do. I cannot manage these cursed laces. Come and see if you can do them up for me.”

He came at once and attended to the problem, making no comment about her tearstained face, and turning afterward to tie up the sumpter packs she had not yet bound. Swinging several of these to his shoulders at once, he stepped toward the entrance.

Alys said gravely, “I do not deserve such kindness from you, Ian, but I thank you for it.”

He smiled over his shoulder at her. “You were kind tae me, mistress. I dinna hold it tae your account that the master had me flogged. I didna do m’ duty, and he might ha’ been a deal the harsher. I willna fail him again, nor will I forget yer kindness or that o’ Mistress Hawkins.”

When the tent flap fell into place behind him, Alys stood for a moment, staring at it. She had begun to think she might simply slip away during the commotion that always accompanied preparation for a journey. Believing she had only to get to the river where, especially under cover of the fog, she could count on finding one of her old hiding places, she had briefly hoped that such a plan might allow her to stay behind with Jonet. But the thought that someone else might suffer for her actions, as Ian had done before, deterred her now.

Donning her scarlet cloak and her gloves, she stepped outside the tent at last, and saw at once that her plan would not have succeeded. Sir Nicholas was not hurrying thither and yon, shouting orders to his men, as she had thought he would be, but was sitting at his ease upon one large pack, leaning against a pile of others, watching her tent. He lifted a hand in greeting when he saw her, and got to his feet.