The Rose at Twilight (23 page)

Lovell smiled, and she instantly recalled his charm. He was in his thirty-first year and not uncomely, even in peasant clothes. He motioned for her to sit, and when she had obeyed him he, too, sat down, saying, “Davy did say you have information for me, mistress. I thought it best to come to you, believing that my movements—in this guise, at any rate—would be less remarked upon than yours, coming to me.”

Suddenly nervous, Alys glanced around, saw that the door to the passage was ajar, and got up to fasten it shut. Returning to her seat, she said quietly, “Sir, I do not know precisely how to begin, but I saw something rather startling when I returned to Wolveston Hazard ten days after the battle at Bosworth Field.”

“Did you?”

His expression was blank. He would not help her. Taking a deep breath, she said, “You will think me crazed for saying this, but I believe I saw one of the sons of our late King Edward.”

Lovell’s expression did not change. His tone was calm. “Where did you see this person?” he asked.

“At Wolveston.”

“And what were the circumstances?”

His calm had an effect, but her voice still trembled when she replied, “He was d-dead, sir, in a c-coffin.”

“What?” The viscount sat up with a jerk. Eyeing her intently, he snapped, “Why do you think it was one of the princes, my lady, and which do you believe it to have been?”

She gave him back look for look. “You do not deny the possibility, sir, but pray, what can a prince of the blood royal have been doing at Wolveston Hazard?”

“There is naught in that to concern you now. Answer me.”

She hesitated only a moment. “He looked like a Plantagenet, sir, all blond and … and … I do not know, in faith, but he did have a look of King Edward, not in size or shape but the Plantagenet look. You know what I mean. You must.”

“Very fair? But frail withal? A thin face?”

“Aye.”

“Was there …” He paused, looking at her again for a moment before he said, “Edward gave each of his sons a small, round medallion on a chain, engraved with his device, the sun—”

“The sun in splendor. I know. I saw no such thing, sir.”

“He would have worn it round his neck.”

“His collar was high. I saw nothing. But, sir, who else—”

Lovell sagged. “I do not know why I deny the truth. It must have been Edward. But what then of Richard?”

“They both were there then! ’Tis really true, sir?”

“Aye, for safety, Dickon did say. ’Twas better they were in the north, but not in Yorkshire, so Wolveston was chosen. Dickon did say the old lord was not one to stir enemies, that he would not be suspect, especially with the others at Sheriff Hutton. When it was learned that the Tudor had landed in Wales, Dickon decided to separate the lads—again for their safety—but he did not tell me the details. What has become of young Richard?”

“I do not know, sir. I was told only that he had gone away, to his fostering, they did say.”

“Did not the old lord … ah, but I was forgetting. Davy did tell me he died of the sweat, but naught was said of the lads, and I assumed they were away safe. Was no name mentioned, no foster family?” he asked, looking at her now very keenly.

“No, for it was the soldiers who came to fetch me who told me what little I know. But …” She hesitated, frowning as she searched her memory. “My father did mention one name, but it cannot have had anything to do with Prince Richard, for the name he mentioned is that of a man who has submitted to the Tudor.”

“Who? There is one more likely than all others.”

“A man named Tyrell.”

Lovell relaxed. “James is never the Tudor’s man.”

“But he is! Sir James did swear fealty to the Tudor, just as Roger did. In faith, sir, he did retain his Welsh estates and his titles. The Tudor has even named him Sheriff of Glamorgan.”

“James is a clever lad,” Lovell said thoughtfully. His brow was furrowed, and after a moment’s silence, he said, “The Tudor’s own Wales would be the safest place to hide a Yorkist prince, and James owns vast estates there. If he has convinced the king of his loyalty, then all may yet be well with our Richard.”

“But if he has changed coats, sir, as I fear he has, even if he does have the prince with him, Richard cannot be safe!”

Lovell smiled, and the expression lightened his countenance considerably. “A more loyal Yorkist never existed than James Tyrell. Whatever he has done, my lady, you may be certain it was done to secure the safety of his royal highness.” A new thought struck him. “They cannot know that Edward is dead.”

“They had gone before he died, sir, or so I was told.”

“Are you certain that the soldiers who occupied the castle did not recognize the boy for a Plantagenet?”

“How could they? They were Welshmen and Scots, nearly all of them. Their leader is a Welshman who had never before been to the north of England or to London. He believed the boys to have been my brothers, and though he knows now that they were not, he does not suspect in the least that they might have been royal.”

Lovell nodded. “Good, then I must think, for if Tyrell does not know the lad is the sole surviving heir—”

“But is he, sir? What about King Edward’s prior betro—”

“Harry Tudor himself set aside their bastardy in order to marry Elizabeth,” Lovell said grimly, “and even before that, York’s claim was far stronger than Lancaster’s.”

“But if that is true,” Alys said, “and if Richard of York is also dead, then Elizabeth would be the true heir, would she not?”

Lovell grinned but shook his head. “We shall never see a wench on the throne, my dear. No army would support her. There was one once, to be sure—Matilda or some such, she was called—and mayhap others before her, unnatural though it seems to us today; but there will never be another. Ruling a country as important as England is no business for a lady. Neither Margaret of Anjou nor Margaret Beaufort attempted to claim the throne.”

“Well, Elizabeth does expect to rule at his side,” Alys said, “but as yet he has said naught of crowning her queen.”

“Harry prefers to rule alone. He was willing to unite with the white rose, but he does not want people thinking he needs her to retain his position. We must think what is to be done.”

“I’ll do what I can, sir, but I know not what that may be.”

“Do naught,” he said firmly. “A gently bred lady can take no part in the sort of mischief I have in mind. ’Twould be safer by far to attend to your stitching.”

“But I want to help!”

Lovell said soothingly, “Mayhap your help will be needed in future, Lady Alys, but just now, I must think of a safe way to get word to Sir James Tyrell that he holds in his keeping a life more precious than he can know.”

“Could you not just send a trusted messenger to him?”

Lovell shook his head. “No man can be trusted with such a message, lest the information fall into the Tudor’s hands. At present, Henry behaves as if those lads never existed.”

“I know, and Elizabeth believes they are dead, though she did say her mother does not believe the same.”

“You did not tell her what you knew?”

Alys shook her head.

“Good girl. ’Twas clear from the outset that Harry did not know where to find the princes, for had he known, he would have taken them into custody. And had he believed them dead, he would have accused Dickon publicly of having murdered them before Bosworth. He has done neither. Therefore, he knows nothing.”

Alys said stubbornly, “If Sir James Tyrell gave up Prince Richard when he submitted, would they not keep it quiet for fear Edward might then step forward? They cannot know he is dead.”

Lovell shook his head. “Tyrell would no more have betrayed his king than I would. You cannot understand, I know, so you will do better simply to believe me. And accepting that and one other fact—that Harry Tudor would give his right eye to know where he might put his hands on the princes—there must be naught to connect any known Yorkist with Sir James. That means no messages from me. Of course, if you should simply chance to encounter him in London—How long before your return, my lady?”

Alys flushed. “I have no present intention to return.”

“What?” He glanced around the tiny sitting room. “You cannot intend to reside here!”

She nodded. “At present I do.”

“Davy did say something about your having traveled north with a company of players, but knowing you had fostered in the grandeur of Middleham, as I did myself, I could not credit his word on the matter. You are telling me he spoke the truth?”

“Aye. The Tudor did desire to wed me to a relative of Sir Thomas Stanley. I did not wish to obey, so I left London.”

Lovell’s deep-set eyes began to twinkle. “Did you now?”

Lifting her chin, Alys said, “I did, and I have no intention to return, sir.”

He shook his head, his amusement clear now. “You cannot have thought the matter through, mistress. You cannot wish to live in the manner that would be required of you here.”

She was silent. He was right. The cottage was not at all the sort of house to which she was accustomed, and already it had begun to seem small beyond reason, as though its inhabitants trod upon one another in going about their daily business. Mary Hawkins was not only older than Jonet, but more like Davy, and after the weeks on the road with the players, kind and amusing though Alys had found them, she longed for proper servants, proper surroundings, and most of all, an indoor privy. She had been avoiding Lovell’s gaze, but she met it now directly.

“I have no wish to live here indefinitely, but I cannot return to Wolveston. Not only are there soldiers there still—”

“I know.” He grinned at her.

“You know? Were you there?”

“Briefly, after Bosworth. We had gone before any soldiers arrived, but I keep my eye on Wolveston. Your brother may have bowed to Harry, but I warrant he would harbor me again even so.”

“He will not harbor me, however, and I cannot return to London, for you must know that having displeased the king I should most likely find myself back in the Tower like Neddie. ’Tis a pleasant residence for royalty, but not so pleasant for those confined there against their will, as I was before.”

“Tell me.”

She obliged him with a recounting of her recent history, and though he laughed at some things, he was sympathetic toward the young Warwick, and understood Alys’s desire to avoid the Tower.

“Still, I do not know what else you can do, mistress, for if your brother be content to leave you in the king’s ward, you can have no recourse but to obey Harry’s commands.”

“But you cannot want me to wed a traitor!”

“No one will ask for my advice or my consent.”

She sighed, and he rose a few moments later to leave her, pausing on the threshold to extract a promise that she would at least consider returning to the capital, where she might be of some use to those few remaining Yorkists who still had it in mind to annoy Henry Tudor. In his turn, Lovell promised that he would not abandon her but would visit her again one day if he could do so without endangering himself or her in the process. “I must think of things to do in the meantime to keep the royal mind occupied,” he said, clapping his hat to his head and turning to leave. Sudden noise from the street stopped him in his tracks.

Davy hurried in from the passageway, and a heavy pounding at the door sounded as he hissed, “Soldiers in the street, master!”

“Let them in,” Lovell said. Shooting Alys a mischievous grin, he jerked his cap lower over his eyes and pulled his long hair forward to cover more of his face. Then swiftly, he turned toward the parlor hearth, snatching a log from the basket, and kneeling to make himself busy with the little fire.

Alys waited tensely while Davy hastened to open the door. She never doubted for a moment who would be standing on the other side, though if anyone had asked how she knew, she would have been unable to tell them. First there were ringing footsteps on the stones of the passageway. Then several men entered the parlor, filling it, but the first one she recognized was Sir Nicholas, and despite an undeniable flash of relief in his eyes when he saw her, she knew instantly that he was furious.

Still helmeted, he pushed Davy aside as he came through the doorway, looking even taller than she remembered and saying grimly, “I am glad to have found you, Lady Alys. I had rather be serving my king with my sword, but for my pains in once having delivered you safely to him, I am commanded to repeat the trick. You may collect your belongings. We do not tarry.” Glancing at Lovell, who was groveling at his feet by now, he added gruffly, “Begone, man! You may finish that task anon.”

“Aye, master.” And Lovell was gone on the words, backing obsequiously through the door and shutting it behind him.

Alys watched him go with mixed feelings of relief and abandonment. She had no wish to face Sir Nicholas alone. Not that they were alone. Not when Hugh and the three other men with him made the room seem as close as a sumpter pack. She glanced at them, then back at Sir Nicholas, raising her chin. “I have no wish to return to London, sir.”

He glared at her. “You will do—” He broke off and said sharply to his men, “Leave us. Go into the street or the back garden, or perhaps you will find warmth in the kitchen.”

Thinking Lovell would have gone to the kitchen rather than out where he would meet more of Sir Nicholas’s men, Alys said hastily, “The kitchen is small, sir, and will be smoky, for the cook fire is in the center and there is no proper chimney.”

Sir Nicholas glanced at the hearth, where Lovell’s efforts had produced less than admirable results. “The kitchen cannot be worse than this will be in three minutes’ time, for that lout did not do his work properly. Here, Hugh, see what you can do with that fire before you go, or else we shall be suffocated in here.”

“No doubt you frightened him,” Alys said, paling when she realized that the others were going to the kitchen. That fact and the sight of Hugh made her wonder where Jonet was and why she had not come to the parlor the minute she knew they had visitors.

Sir Nicholas had been looking at her, and now he said in a gentler voice than he had used before, “What is it,
mi geneth?
Are you affrighted, too?”