The Rose at Twilight (30 page)

“You must dry yourself,” she protested, enjoying nonetheless the sense of being carried like a child in his arms. His skin felt warm, not chilled at all.

“Be quiet,” he said gruffly, placing her on the bed, turning back to snuff the candles, then climbing in beside her. As he leaned over her, his lips close to hers, he murmured, “We have waited overlong,
mi geneth.
We’ve a duty to be done, a holy obligation to consummate our marriage.”

“I am afraid, sir,” she murmured back, speaking the first words that came to her mind but thinking at the same moment that though he was so large, so powerful a man, and now her husband, the words were not true. She had defied him, made him angry, even physically assaulted him; yet, he had not retaliated as he might have done. He had frightened her, to be sure, but he had controlled his anger, and now she was not so much frightened of him as apprehensive of what lay ahead.

She said none of these things to him in the silence that followed, and she realized suddenly from his expression, lit by the glow of the dying fire, that he had been taken aback by her confession of fear.

“I will not hurt you if I can avoid it,” he said softly. “I will go slowly.”

And he did, kissing, stroking, caressing, and teasing her, preparing her so thoroughly, in fact, that by the time he claimed her she was moaning, burning for him, her body alive and yearning for his. And if the claiming itself was not so pleasant, the ache that followed became a small part of the memories that lingered. Before she slept, she lay beside him, looking into the darkness overhead, distantly aware of a few last cracks from the dying embers on the hearth, and filled with wonder that a mere man could make a woman experience such marvelous feelings. She wondered, too, if she had stirred similar feelings in him.

T
HE NEXT MORNING ALYS
awakened early to the sound of voices in the room. The bed curtains were drawn, but she peeped out between them to see, in the gray dawn light from the two windows flanking the hearth, that Tom was helping his master to dress. Embarrassed by the squire’s presence and by a sudden flood of memories from the night before, she ducked back before he might see her. Lying back against her pillows, listening to the soft murmur of their voices, she soon drifted back to sleep, and when she awoke again, the room was empty. She realized then what she had not really noted before, that Sir Nicholas had been dressing not in courtly attire but in his mail chausses and brigandine.

Jumping out of bed, she found her green silk robe, put it on, and padded swiftly, barefoot, to the door. Pulling it open as carefully as she could, she peeped into the sitting room. To her relief Jonet was there, with a basket of her mending.

Looking up, Jonet smiled and greeted her, putting away her work and getting to her feet as she talked. “I thought you would sleep all day, Lady Alys. Her grace, the queen, has twice sent to ask of you, but she most kindly forbade me to waken you.”

Alys had meant to ask at once where Sir Nicholas had gone, but her attention was caught by one phrase among the tumble of words. “The queen? Elizabeth has not yet been crowned queen.”

“Nay, but she is wife to the king, madam, and we have been commanded to style her so henceforth.”

Alys sighed. “And now you choose to call me madam? I vow, Jonet, when Sir Nicholas spoke of the changing world, I did not understand how rightly he spoke. I do not like it so.”

“Then, when we are alone, mistress, I will continue to call you as I have before. I, too, prefer it, I confess.” She moved swiftly past Alys into the bedchamber, and went to open the wardrobe. “What will you wear?”

“Anything,” Alys said. “Where is Sir Nicholas?”

“Gone into the city, Miss Alys. A matter of duty, he said; and, God be thanked, he has taken that pestrous fool Hugh Gower with him. The man is addled. Blurting his so-called compliments where all and sundry can hear them, then looking hurt when I tell him to stop, as if he has done me a kindness and been slapped for it.” Jonet began to riffle through the clothing in the wardrobe.

“He means well, I suppose,” Alys said. She sighed. Clearly her husband’s feelings about the previous night were different from hers. She had wanted to talk with him, to watch his face when he responded, to touch him again. Waking to find him gone from her bed had been bad enough, waking to find him gone away altogether was worse, and discovering that he had been able to go without even waking her to say farewell was the worst of all.

She soon discovered that there was more unpleasantness in store for her, for once she had dressed and broken her fast, she had no further excuse to avoid the ladies’ solar. Elizabeth was absent, but many of her ladies were present, including Madeline Fenlord, for it was nearly eleven o’clock, and dinner would soon be served. Alys’s entrance was greeted with gaiety and laughter. Some wished her well; others made bawdy references to the duties of marriage, which made her blush and wish herself elsewhere. She was grateful when Madeline turned the conversation to some matter of gossip and the others finally left her in peace.

When everyone began to adjourn to a nearby room for the midday meal, Madeline moved close to Alys and said, “They are like starving children when it comes to snatching up the crumbs of other people’s lives, are they not?”

“More like ravenous birds,” Alys said, listening to the rattle of chatter around them, “unable to remain still for long before they must feed again. But unlike the hungry children with whom you compare them, one does not pity them overmuch.”

“I do,” Madeline said firmly. “Only look at them as they truly are—at us all, for that matter—confined to these rooms, to the court, with only one another for company. There are very few who are true friends, for experience in past years has taught us all that a friend today might prove our enemy tomorrow, only for his or her own advancement, or that of a father or husband.”

“Or brother,” Alys agreed, her eyes upon Sir Lionel Everingham’s youngest sister, Sarah, a pretty, dark-eyed child, but newly come to court, and looking daggers now at Alys.

Madeline made a face at Sarah, who flushed red and turned quickly away to speak to someone else. “That little bitch deserves thrashing,” Madeline said grimly. “She has been going about this past sennight preaching idiocy, if not treason.”

“Treason!” Alys’s eyes widened.

“Aye, if you believe that to disagree with the king is such, as we—may God preserve us—have been warned it can be.” She swiftly crossed herself, then bent nearer. “Sarah declares that her brother was promised your hand in marriage and that the promise ought to have been honored by the king, since Sir Lionel did swear allegiance to him. I tell you, the girl is mad. She does not even hold her tongue in Elizabeth’s hearing.”

“Elizabeth will not punish her for speaking ill of me.”

“Marry, that may be so, but when Sarah says such things, she speaks ill of Elizabeth’s dearest Harry, not just of you.”

“Madeline!” Alys glanced swiftly around, then sighed with relief when she realized no one was near enough to overhear them.

Madeline shrugged. “I have already displeased her noble grace, I fear, for she asked me yestereve if I did not likewise desire a handsome husband—like your Sir Nicholas, she said. I said I did not think so highly of such men—too full of purpose, I said. Not that he is not handsome, for he is, in his way. And to think of him possessing one, why it must be most exhilarating, and mayhap even pleasant. Well, is it not?” she demanded.

Knowing she must be as red as fire, and not having any wish to reply to such a question, Alys moved to follow the others. Madeline was at her heels and sat down beside her after the blessing, but there was no more opportunity for private conversation. The ladies dined alone that day, so the meal was silent, and instead of minstrels afterward, they had more prayers. It was still Lent and Lady Margaret was present.

Lady Margaret did not accompany Elizabeth and the others back to the solar, however, and the early afternoon passed with unusual lightheartedness, the ladies being entertained while they worked at their tasks by Patch, Elizabeth’s fool, who had been a gift to her from the king. Patch was not as sharp-witted as Tom Blakall, but he had a talent for storytelling, and for making his mistress laugh, and his voice was pleasant to the ear. On this day, seated on the dais at Elizabeth’s feet, he recited a lengthy, sweetly romantic poem.

When he had finished, Elizabeth set aside her work to thank him, then dismissing him, said idly, “We will have music now. No, Lady Emlyn,” she said when that dame instantly picked up her lute, “you would prefer to finish your sewing, as we know, so our new Lady Merion shall entertain us. As we recall, she played passably well for us when we were in residence in the north.”

Alys, having noted Elizabeth’s thoughtful gaze upon her from time to time during dinner and afterward, while the fool recited his poem, had wondered if she had somehow offended her, but she had not expected this. Reluctantly she got to her feet.

“Madam, I regret I have no instrument.”

“Lady Emlyn will lend you hers,” Elizabeth replied, taking up her needlework in a manner precluding further discussion.

Gulping nervously—her skill on the lute being less than laudable, as Elizabeth well knew—Alys stepped forward to take the proffered instrument.

“Sit here on the dais,” Elizabeth said, “where Patch did sit to recite to us. ’Twill make it easier for all of us to hear you. Perchance you will choose to entertain us with a ballad.”

Alys glanced at Madeline, who clearly had realized something was amiss, but all she got in response was a sympathetic smile. By now, the other ladies in the room were staring at her, waiting for her to obey the royal command, so she could not even indulge herself by glaring at Elizabeth. She could only obey.

It occurred to her then that perhaps she was making too much of a small thing. She would sit down, take up the lute, and show that she had too little skill to be asked often to repeat the task. Elizabeth would have the satisfaction of having shown her in a poor light to the others, and life would go on as before. The experience would be humiliating, to be sure, but it was not as though she were being thrown to lions or hanged, drawn, and quartered before a mass of gawkers at Tyburn hill.

Her courage bolstered by these thoughts, she stepped to the dais and took her seat, telling herself as she arranged her skirts that it was not so much that she was at Elizabeth’s feet as that she was at the head of the room. Taking up the lute, she plucked the strings to be certain they were not disastrously out of tune, tried desperately to remember the words to the simplest ballad she knew how to play, and began.

She had a pleasant singing voice and hoped it would cover her lapses on the instrument, but no sooner had she finished the song than Elizabeth, shaking her head sadly, said, “You do not seem to have practiced as you ought, Lady Merion. Your voice is well enough, we suppose, but your playing displeases us.”

Flushing as much with anger as with embarrassment, Alys said, “I do apologize, madam. I am not so skilled upon the lute as I should like to be.”

“Perhaps there is another instrument you would prefer to play for us instead,” Elizabeth said sweetly.

“No, madam, I fear not.” Alys hated her then as she had not hated her since leaving Sheriff Hutton.

“But this state of affairs is unacceptable, Lady Merion. It is our … our desire that you will inform your new husband at once of this dismal lack, and beg him to hire a tutor for you. Since you will need leisure for your lessons, until such time as you believe your skill sufficiently improved to warrant a request that we permit you to play for us again, you may be excused from such duties in our bedchamber as you have hitherto performed.”

“May I have leave to retire now, madam?” Alys asked grimly. Desire or command, it made no difference, for they were equal when spoken by the king’s wife, and it was no minor matter to have been denied entrance to Elizabeth’s bedchamber. There was small hope that Sir Nicholas, as ambitious as she knew him to be, would not be displeased with the situation. Elizabeth was taking full revenge for Sheriff Hutton, and Alys wanted time to think.

But Elizabeth said, “There is no cause for haste, Lady Merion. Lady Emlyn, do you take the lute now and show her the level of skill to which she must aspire.” When Alys had returned the lute, she added, “Prithee, return to your place on the dais, Lady Merion, until such time as we choose to dismiss you.”

Redder than ever, and seething inside, but knowing she dared not reveal her fury, Alys sat down again on the edge of the dais, aware that every eye in the room must be upon her and wishing she knew such an effective way to make Elizabeth squirm. She sat stiffly erect until Lady Emlyn had plucked her last note, but when Elizabeth said serenely that she thought it time they all retired to their chambers to prepare for the evening meal, which she would take that evening in the great hall with the king, Alys leapt to her feet, her countenance betraying her relief.

“Lady Merion,” Elizabeth said gently, “we did not know you were so eager to depart, but you have surprised us in other ways before now, have you not? In truth, we confess we had not known you were so well resigned to this marriage of yours as it appears you must be. Knowing, after all, that you had hoped to wed Sir Lionel Everingham, so handsome, so …” Breaking off with a dismissive gesture, she said, “But ’twould be ungracious of us to suggest that your new husband is in any way the lesser knight.”

“By my faith, madam,” Alys said, turning to look her right in the eye and speaking with unfortunate clarity, “since we are both wedded to Welshmen, I had expected you to rejoice with me.”

A hushed silence filled the room, and for a moment Alys thought the royal serenity would falter, but it was only a moment. Then Elizabeth said, “Indeed, madam, we do rejoice.” Handing her needlework to Lady Emlyn, she arose with her dignity apparently unimpaired and left the room.

In the corridor, moving swiftly toward the stairs with the other ladies, Madeline grabbed Alys’s arm with enough force to leave bruises and hissed into her ear, “Are you mad? How did you dare to speak to her so?”