The Rose at Twilight (33 page)

“You will allow me to be the better judge of that, mistress,” Gwilym said calmly, nodding at a man who approached on foot. The man glanced from one to the other but obeyed Gwilym.

Madeline sat rigidly, staring straight ahead until the adjustment had been made and the man had gone away again, before saying evenly to Gwilym, “You take too much upon yourself, sir.”

He bowed from his saddle and rode away. Less than a quarter hour later the cavalcade passed through the iron gates, but instead of riding down the valley the way they had come, they forded the river to follow a track through the hills to the valley of the river Wye. Looking back from the crest of the first hill, Alys could see the dark shadow of the house in the distance, beside the tall stone keep, with fluffy white clouds floating above it. Two hours later the sky was black, and long before they reached Hay, rain was pouring down upon them.

By the next day the downpour had diminished to a drizzle, but when they entered Worcester, two days later, the women were miserable, and the river Wye was running red with clay washed down from the hills. Nicholas, his impatience increasing by the hour, insisted upon pushing ahead the next day, though both Gwilym and Hugh urged him to stay in Worcester one full day to rest both horses and riders. Alys had been disappointed to discover that the sleeping arrangements were the same as they had been on the journey from London, but once she had been reminded of how brusque Nicholas could be, particularly while traveling, she decided it was better to share her rooms at the various religious houses with Madeline, Jonet, and Elva, than with him.

Their pace was slower than he would have liked, but they made Birmingham by early afternoon on Maundy Thursday. Thus he was encouraged to press on the following day to Burton Abbey, where the women, Sir Nicholas, Gwilym, and their body servants were directed to the guesthouse, a building of considerable size and elegance set at a distance from the cloister, so that guests would not disturb the monks by their untimely comings and goings.

The rest of the men were to be housed in the cellarer’s hospice, and before following the rotund little guestmaster into the house, Sir Nicholas called to Hugh to see that both the men and their horses were ready to depart by daybreak.

“Your husband is an ogre,” Madeline declared when the women were installed a short time later in the ladies’ hall, where although they would sup together with the gentlemen, they would spend the night separated from them. “It is not enough that we have had to subsist upon Lenten fare—and at religious houses at that, where the rules are formidable—but he pushes us and pushes us to ride through muck and mire until we resemble naught so much as mud hens. Speak to him, Alys. Mayhap he will listen to you.”

Alys grimaced, for when she had dared to protest earlier, she had received short shrift from her husband. “He does not heed what anyone says,” she told Madeline. “He is obsessed with reaching the king. I think he frets over what might happen if he is not there with him to protect his royal backside.”

Madeline sighed. “His lunatic brother is obsessed, too, I think. The man is forever watching over me, as if I were a want-wit unable to look after myself. ‘Pull your cloak tighter about you, mistress,’ he says. ‘Do you not have a hat with a wider brim, mistress?’ ‘Do not tread in that puddle, mistress.’ And when I dropped my whip and he picked it up for me, he told me not to be so careless. As if I had not always been a trifle clumsy—marry, you know I have, Alys! But
he
says I am merely careless! I have never known any man like him. He cannot converse in a courtly manner, and when I asked him most politely to point out to his elder brother that the horrid clouds overhead were dripping on us, he said only, ‘The Lord controls the weather, mistress; Nicholas does not.’ I tell you, he is daft!”

Alys smiled then, but Jonet, who was busily ordering two lay brothers to see to the cloaks and coffers, turned at hearing Madeline’s words and said wryly, “I believe it is a general condition of Welshmen to push themselves in where they are not wanted, Mistress Fenlord. In Worcester this morning, that elephant, Hugh Gower, actually lifted me right off my feet and carried me across that wet courtyard to put me on my palfrey. The audacity of the knave!”

Alys and Madeline, having both enjoyed the sight of an indignant Jonet being carried as though she were a child in arms and not the woman of generous proportion that she was, exchanged grins but did not so lose their senses as to tease her. Instead, Madeline said, “Just so. There can be no doubt about it; all Welshmen are mad. But, Alys, surely you can do something about this wicked pace Sir Nicholas is setting! We shall all catch our death of cold and damp. In point of fact, I heard two of the men muttering something about an outbreak of the sweating sickness. I did not hear the town they mentioned, nor did I want to ask, but it just goes to show what we can expect.” She shivered.

It was not sickness that slowed them, however, but the round little guestmaster, who expressed profound dismay at the notion of traveling on the very eve of Easter. Being excused by virtue of his position from the rule of silence at Burton, he did not hesitate to expound at length upon the subject to Nicholas himself. The exchange took place after vespers when they returned to the hall of the guesthouse for their supper, the only meal served at Burton on fast days.

Alys fully expected Sir Nicholas to snub the kind little man and was pleasantly surprised when he said only, “I am but heeding my duty in going to meet my king, Father.”

The master, looking like an plump indignant gnome in his black cowl and cassock, was unimpressed. “His grace, as all here know well, my son, is secure at Lincoln for the holy festival. Being a good man of pious habits who knows his duty to God, he has been there since Wednesday. Therefore, if you insist upon departing at daybreak, I shall have no choice but to summon the lord abbot himself to dissuade you. And his commands,” he added darkly, “must be obeyed as if they came from God. Do not doubt that he will order the stable doors locked and barred, if he believes it necessary, to keep you here at Burton.”

Routed, Sir Nicholas gave in with what little grace he could muster, but his mood when he observed the plate of porridge set before him was not pleasant. Alys, watching him, forbore to speak her own thoughts about the paucity of the meal. It was, after all, nearly the last day of Lent.

She felt clammy and filthy, and would have traded her best velvet gown, if not her pearl necklet, for a bath. But after supper when she suggested to the guestmaster that one might be provided for her, he stared at her in dismay.

“Baths are available only for the sick, my lady. Being an indulgence of the flesh, they are discouraged at Burton. Oh, but wait,” he added, brightening. “Tomorrow eve, being the night before Easter, is one of the two days of the year when one might indulge oneself. I shall approach the abbot on your behalf.”

He made Alys feel as if he were doing her a great favor, and she was not optimistic about his efforts, but he surprised her. Although the following day passed uneventfully, that evening, just before the bells began to ring compline, two lay brothers carried a tub into the ladies’ hall, and brought water to heat over the fire. With alacrity, Jonet fetched Alys’s French soaps and herbs, and although Nicholas, Gwilym, and their servants retired to their chambers after supper, the evening was spent much more pleasurably than those that had gone before it.

Despite her bath, Alys did not sleep well, for it seemed to her that the bells rang all night long, and after lauds she did not sleep again. Since Easter was one of the five great feasts of the church calendar, there was great ceremony attending it, and the whole house at Burton strove to do honor to the occasion. The guests, attending early services as well as a high mass at noon, found the entire church decorated. The finest furnishings had been placed on the altar for the occasion, the best vestments were worn, and all the seats were draped in costly fabrics. The floor coverings had been renewed, so that each step released the tansy scent of costmary or the minty aroma of fresh balm. There was elaborate music, constant ringing of the bells, a splendor of lights and incense, and the services were long.

After mass the guests dined in the refectory with the monks. Festal tablecloths covered the tables, which were decorated with spring flowers, candles, and gold plate. There were soft towels to dry their hands after washing, and the cutlery gleamed. Sir Nicholas, Gwilym, Hugh, and the women sat at the high table with the abbot and guestmaster; and, giving heed to the splendor of the occasion, Jonet, seated beside Hugh, allowed him to serve her without snubbing him. The general mood was festive, and when the Paschal lamb was brought to the abbot’s board to be carved, and Madeline sighed her pleasure aloud, twinkles of delight could be seen in more than one otherwise stoic face at the lower tables.

When the huge meal was over, the guests retired to the guesthouse again to rest. As Alys was moving to join the other women, a hand on her arm brought her around to face her husband.

He smiled ruefully. “I have neglected you sadly these past days, wife. Do you fetch your lute and bring it down to the hall. We can have a lesson while the others rest.”

She went gladly, delighted to have an opportunity to spend some time with him and hoping that the warmth she had seen in his eyes might later be kindled to something stronger. When she returned, however, she discovered that they would not be alone in the hall, for the roaring fire had drawn the others. Madeline had found a book to read, and Jonet and Elva had their baskets of mending. Even the two lay brothers had unearthed a board upon which to play Fox and Geese, and had sat down upon the floor at a distance from the others to enjoy themselves.

Gwilym, coming into the hall a few moments later, looked speculatively at Madeline and then at the fire before he settled himself in the inglenook to doze.

Alys made herself comfortable on a cushion near the hearth, and Nicholas sat down cross-legged beside her, his lute in hand. She began to pluck a simple tune on hers, to limber her fingers, and after listening critically for a few moments, he matched his playing to hers. They had been playing for only a few moments when Gwilym murmured to no one in particular, “The music is well enough, but ’twould be more pleasant, withal, if someone would read aloud to us for a spell.”

One of the lay brothers offered to fetch a Bible or a book of psalms from which to read, but Madeline, looking at Gwilym over her book, said sweetly, “You might well benefit from more prayers, sir, but I have had a surfeit of them, and ’tis but an hour before vespers when Master Guestmaster will no doubt insist once again that we join the holy brothers at their worship.”

Alys saw muscles tighten in Gwilym’s jaw, but he replied evenly, “You would not wish to miss the reading of psalms for your relatives, mistress, nor the singing of the Easter anthems. Such flightiness on such a holy day becomes you not. You must know that I meant it would please me, and the others, if you would read aloud to us from your tale.”

Flushing visibly and giving an angry toss of her head, Madeline snapped, “When I want a sermon, Master Pope-Holy, I shall send for a priest to speak it. No one wants to hear my voice drown out the pretty music of the lutes.”

Nicholas, with a glance at his brother’s rigid countenance, said quietly, “Your voice is most pleasant, mistress. I warrant that we all should enjoy your reading.”

“Certainly, sir,” Madeline said, according him a regal nod. “I would be happy to do so when
you
ask me so courteously.”

The emphasis in her friend’s tone made Alys look quickly down at the strings of her lute, so that her amusement would not be visible to her husband or his brother. She was beginning to think that Madeline’s vanity, so long indulged by the men in her family, and others at court, had been pricked by Gwilym’s failure to treat her as she was accustomed to be treated. He seemed both impervious to her charms and unimpressed by her beauty or temper. Alys still could not imagine he had any desire to marry her friend, but she found their exchanges amusing and wanted to watch for further developments; however, when Madeline began to read aloud, Nicholas drew his wife aside to continue their lesson.

Madeline had just closed her book, declaring that her voice was failing her, when the bells began to ring for vespers. The lutes were put away, and everyone adjourned again to the church. Alys, walking to her place beside her husband, peeped up at him from beneath her veil, wondering if he would desire to continue her instruction later, in bed. Then, crossing herself for such unholy thoughts, she bowed her head and knelt beside him.

The service, like the others before it that day, was longer than usual, but they emerged at last and headed with relief toward the guesthouse. The guestmaster had told them there would be a small supper served in the hall when they returned, and although no one had believed they would be hungry again, Alys was looking forward to it, and thought the others must be, too.

She saw the black-clad monks moving like shadows to their dormitory for the night, each being sprinkled with holy water as he passed the abbot, and as she turned with the others to cross the cobbled court, there came a clatter of hooves on the stones.

A horse and rider careered into the yard and came to a plunging halt not far from the little group. The monks paused in their procession, and Sir Nicholas’s men on their way to the cellarer’s hospice paused too, to see what news had come.

“Sir Nick Merion?” the courier shouted.

“Aye!” Nicholas shouted back.

“You’re to ride to meet his sovereign grace, the king, at Barnsdale in Sherwood Forest by midweek, sir, with all your men, or to join him on the Nottingham road before then. His grace departs Lincoln at dawn for Nottingham Castle, and goes straight on to Pontefract from there. There be wickedness afoot!”

“I knew it,” Nicholas exclaimed, glancing at Alys, who stared silently back at him. “’Tis that outlaw, Lovell!”

“Aye, sir, ’tis himself. There was rumors afore we left Lunnon, and they did be confirmed at Lincoln. His noble highness has sent for Northumberland and dunamany knights of Yorkshire. He does regret the fact that my Lord Derby, his uncle, has gone into Wales to attend to his lands there.”