The Rose at Twilight (44 page)

“I do owe him a debt of gratitude,” Nicholas said grimly, “but you must forgive me for asking why he came to you.”

“He had taken shelter at Wolveston before,” she said, “after Bosworth, with Roger, and he thought to do so again. He knew you had not yet taken residence, and even when he discovered I was there, he had no cause to believe …” Her voice trailed away. She knew she was plunging into deep water again.

“You need not explain. No doubt my tenants are as loyal to his cause as you are.”

“No longer, sir,” she murmured. “They are grateful to you and to your brother for setting things to rights at Wolveston. They would still be reluctant to betray me, I suppose, but you are my husband, and I warrant that if you asked them for answers, even about Lovell, you would get them.”

“Then mayhap you had better tell me the whole truth now, to disarm me in the event that someone decides to confide in me.”

“I had not considered that a possibility,” she admitted.

“There is a more dangerous one,” he said quietly. “I have accepted your reluctance to trust me, knowing that it grows out of your fealty to the cause of York, but you can scarcely expect Harry to respect that explanation if he were to discover that you are somehow linked to Lovell’s mischief.”

She was silent, staring at a point on the bed curtains where the glow from the dying fire set shadows dancing. Nicholas was entirely unpredictable when his loyalties conflicted with hers.

“I can feel by your reaction that I have hit the mark,” he said. When she still said nothing, he went on in that same quiet voice, “I can protect you better,
mi calon,
if I am forewarned. I point out, for what it is worth, that I have not yet lost my temper tonight, though the temptation has been strong. I am perfectly calm now and prepared to hear the worst.”

“I believe the boy who died at Wolveston was Prince Edward Plantagenet,” she blurted, wanting the worst over quickly. She felt immediate tension in his body. “I am not certain, Nicholas, but I did think it might be he, and when I told Lovell—”

“You told him! When? At Doncaster?”

“Aye, I did not go there for that purpose,” she said, “but when Davy Hawkins said he was near, I sent Davy to fetch him so that I could tell him what I’d seen and ask him what he knew. He admitted Richard had sent both boys north, like Elizabeth, only not to Yorkshire, where they would have been sought by men who wanted to make trouble for him. My father was loyal to York, and not a combatant. Lovell said Father agreed to take the boys only if Richard would send me to live away from the court, to protect me, so that I might never be thought part of any plan.”

“Then Edward Plantagenet is dead,” Nicholas said. “What of the younger one, Prince Richard of York?”

“I do not know for certain,” she said. “You told me someone had taken him away—for fostering, you said.”

“Do you know who that was?” he asked, very casually.

“I think I do, but I doubt I would be wise to tell you.”

She waited for the explosion, but it did not come. Instead he said, in that same quiet, murmuring tone, “’Tis true, you would not. I am still loyal to my king.”

“And I, to mine.” She sighed. “I doubt that Richard of York still lives, sir. I had doubts before, and since summer I have been certain he must be dead.”

“What happened then to convince you?”

“The man who most likely took him from Wolveston submitted to Henry Tudor and received a general pardon,” she said, choosing her words carefully, “but he sued for a second one before a month was out. One has to assume he must have done something perfectly dreadful in the meantime. I think he killed the prince.”

Nicholas sat up, grabbing her and lifting her to peer intently into her face. “Tyrell? You believe Tyrell had him!”

Her gasp gave her away, and she knew it, but she did her best to recover, saying, “I did not mention any such name.”

“His pardons were much talked of, madam, but he has sworn fealty to Henry Tudor, and has served him well in Glamorgan.” He stopped. “By our Lady,” he said, staring at her, “that was why you asked about Glamorgan when we were traveling to Merion. Did you think to visit the man and ask him flat out where Richard was? Well, did you?” he demanded, giving her a shake. Even in the dim glow from the hearth, he must have seen the answer in her expression, for he released her with exaggerated care and leaned back against his pillows, shutting his eyes as though he feared what he might do if he continued to look at her.

Sitting up, facing him, she said, “I did think some such thing then, Nicholas, but I realized when I saw how treacherous your Welsh mountains were that there was no way I could go.”

“’Tis fortunate that you could not,” he said, opening his eyes and looking at her in such a way that she shivered, “for if I had caught you trying to do such a perilous thing …” He did not finish, nor did he have to.

She swallowed. “I know, Nicholas. I saw at once that it was impossible, and in faith, I know not what I would have done if I had found him. I could scarce ask him if he had Richard of York hidden away in his castle.”

“He cannot have him,” Nicholas said firmly. “He swore allegiance to Henry. If he had control of a Yorkist prince, he would never have done so, not without telling Henry he had him.”

“But he might well have had him and
told
the Tudor so. They still could not announce it to the world without putting Henry’s position on the throne in jeopardy. And Henry could not kill the prince, for if it ever became known that he had, he would have had more trouble than he had already. And if he simply locked him in the Tower with Neddie and me and the others, a host of conspiracies would have erupted to get him out again.”

“If Richard of York is still alive, then why has no one come forward to say so?” Nicholas asked.

“If he lives, ’tis because his keepers still do not know the fate of Edward Plantagenet,” she said, “and even if Henry and Tyrell have dared to kill him, they cannot speak lest the news cause Edward to step forward with an army at his back to claim the throne. But there have been rumors that Richard murdered his nephews, Nicholas. You mentioned them yourself. Henry can have no proof that they both are dead, or he would have told whatever tale he liked to explain their deaths, but I think that when the rumors failed to bring Prince Edward out of hiding to challenge him, he decided it was safe to kill Prince Richard. When he gave the order, Sir James insisted upon the first pardon as an act of good faith, then sued for the second when the deed was done.”

Nicholas was silent, and Alys was grateful. She recalled Lovell’s insistence that Sir James Tyrell had been as loyal to King Richard as Lovell himself was, that he would never have harmed either prince, and it suddenly occurred to her that there might be another reason for Tyrell’s second pardon. What, she wondered, if Sir James had taken the same expedient step that her brother, Sir Lionel, Lincoln, and so many others had taken, of submitting to the Tudor in order to protect his lands and titles? What if he had sued for general pardon, as so many others had done and then, afterward, had arranged for Richard of York to get safely out of England to Flanders? Had he hoped a second pardon would protect him from the Tudor’s wrath? Was it possible that the crazy rumors of Neddie’s escape were meant to cover the movements of another, and far more important, Yorkist prince?

She was glad that Nicholas appeared to be deep in his own thoughts, for she knew that if he had been watching her, he would suspect she knew still more than she had told him. She would have liked to share her ideas with him, but the old fears returned to haunt her. She knew he would protect her as well as he could, but if she confided her new suspicions, she was certain that his duty would be even clearer to him than it was to her.

“You may have the right of it,” he said at last, and for a wild moment she thought he meant she was right in what she had been thinking, and she had to struggle to remember what she had actually said to him. Before she could comment, he went on, “It does not matter, however, because from this moment you are out of it. No, do not argue with me,” he added, reaching out to place a finger on her lips. “I will, if necessary, exert every right my position as your husband grants me to see to your safety. I ought to have Gwilym take you straight back to Wolveston—”

“No! Oh, Nicholas, I promise—”

“Make yourself easy,” he said, straightening and pulling her close again, drawing the bedclothes up over her. “I am not such a fool as to insist that you travel such a distance in this uncertain weather, let alone in your present condition. You will, however, leave the court and move to Queenshithe, where my mother can see that you take proper care of yourself. It cannot be good for you to continue in attendance upon the queen now, particularly in view of your precarious relationship with her.”

“We get on well enough now,” she said, holding her resentment in check, knowing that to lose her temper now would do her no good. “Since Elizabeth has presented the Tudor with his heir, she is well satisfied with herself and gracious to all of us in attendance on her.”

“No matter, you will be better off in Queenshithe. Once this weather settles, I must be about my duties again, and will feel the better for knowing you are safe with my parents. And do not think you will be able to work your wiles on them to let you have your own way, sweetheart,” he added, “for I will make my wishes clear to them, and they know that I have not only the right to command you, but the will to enforce my commands.”

She did not doubt him, and she was too glad to have got through the past hour without having been banished to Wolveston again to resist him further. She murmured that she would do her best to behave, but her sigh of resignation made him laugh.

“You had better see that your best is enough,” he said, “or be prepared to face my wrath.” Then, sobering, he said, “Don’t think that because I do not scold you, I am not displeased by all this, madam. You tread too lightly upon the threshold of treason to suit me, and if either Elizabeth or Henry should catch you at your tricks, I doubt I could protect you. Now that you carry my son, it is more important than ever that you behave.”

“Your son, is it? It might as easily be my daughter, sir.”

“Aye, and a right little baggage she would be. In either case, madam, you will take care.”

“I will,” she said. “Kiss me, Nicholas, so that I know you truly are not angry with me anymore.”

“You would bewitch me,” he said, pulling her into his arms and kissing her thoroughly. His hands began to move over her body, and his breathing deepened and quickened, and soon she knew he would speak no more that night of her misdeeds.

That she could stir him so easily was an increasing delight to her. She gloried in the pleasure that he gave to her body and in what she could do to him with no more than a touch, a kiss, or a caress. She exerted herself to please him, reveling in each lusty groan and gasp of pleasure, tantalizing and teasing him until he could stand no more, and took command of the proceedings in such a way as to leave her breathless. Stirred to heights she had never explored before, Alys abandoned modesty to follow her instincts, murmuring endearments, responding to his every touch and stimulus with new ones all her own, and crying aloud her pleasure at the end. By the time the two of them fell back to their pillows, exhausted, there were only ashes left of the fire on the hearth. But in Alys’s heart the glow of love for Nicholas burned warmly, making her wish that she had the power to keep him near her always, safe, to love her and to be loved in return.

But the next morning Nicholas took her to stay with his parents in the house at Queenshithe. He was kind and loving, and he stayed there with her for the first two nights, but on the third morning he left the city at the head of a troop of his men, bound for Somerset, to look into incidents of mischief-making. Sadly, Alys watched him go, feeling her child stir, and wondering if these new incidents had aught to do with the mischiefs Lovell had promised to stir up to annoy the king.

T
HE HOUSE AT QUEENSHITHE
occupied a whole block between Thames Street and the river. From the street, one entered a walled court; from the river, one used the private landing terrace and went up through the garden. The house itself, built of brick and timber, and boasting a tower, a large oak-paneled hall, four bay-windowed parlors overlooking the Thames, and vast expanses of glass and tiled floors, was extremely comfortable.

By comparison with other places Alys had lived, the house was modern and convenient, and Nicholas’s family made warm and pleasant company for her. But she missed her husband sorely.

Gwilym had already begun to chafe at being so long away from Wolveston, and decided to return. The night before he left, Sir Walter Fenlord and his son came to call, with Madeline; and while Alys and Gwenyth entertained her near the fireplace in the great parlor, the men talked of hunting and politics some distance away. The ladies paid little heed to them, although once, when Gwilym had drawn Sir Walter to one side and was talking earnestly with him, Alys saw Madeline stiffen, give them both a long look, and then turn away and put her nose in the air.

Alys did not see her again for several days. Nicholas had not forbidden her the court altogether, but his parents were not people who believed life centered about the activities there. They took part only when they were invited to attend a function, and since Madeline’s duties kept her in attendance on the queen, it was not until the following week, when the family were bidden to supper, that the two young women saw each other again.

“We are to take barges to Sheen tomorrow,” Madeline informed her, “and ’tis more than time, for I swear that not all the ashes in London can refresh the jakes at Westminster, the court has been here so long. We did think the king would order the remove last week, but he did not. He has been too much taken up with all the rumors regarding the young Earl of Warwick. Have all the men at Queenshithe not been talking, like everyone else?”

“Rhys and Dafydd ab Evan have spoken of them, to be sure,” Alys said. “Gwilym left for Wolveston the day after your visit. Did you not know?”