The Rose at Twilight (9 page)

“It is perfectly warm,” she said. “Now that the rain has stopped and the sun come out, I shall not be surprised if the men do not begin to complain about the heat. There can be no good reason for my not having a proper bath and washing my hair.”

“There is one very good reason,” Sir Nicholas said gently as he opened the flap and stepped inside the tent.

Alys glared at him. “You mean because you have forbidden it, I suppose.”

“An excellent reason, is it not?”

“I do not agree, sir. I am not accustomed to having my every move dictated by a Welshman. In faith, I am not accustomed to arbitrary orders of any kind.”

“Ah, but you have forgotten,
mi Saesnes-bach
,” he said. “Had you not already told me about Lady Drufield, I might have believed you, but since you did …”

“What does that mean?” she demanded. “I remember the first part means Englishwoman, but what is the rest, the
bach
part?”

“Only that you are small,” he said, giving her a direct look as he said it. “’Tis a point worth remembering, mistress.”

There was a note in his voice that sent a shiver up her spine, but she ignored it and gazed steadily back at him. “In England,” she said, “gentlemen do not employ such terms when they speak to ladies. They show proper respect.”

“Do they?”

She nodded, determined not to let her gaze falter.

He shrugged and turned away. “I suppose that is entirely possible. Nevertheless, you will not defy my orders, nor will you command your woman to do so.” He flicked a glance at Jonet, who kept her head down and made no effort to return his look. “I came to tell you I will be away from camp for several hours,” he said. “I am taking men to Conisborough to see if the sickness has struck there as well.”

“How many are you taking?” Alys asked swiftly.

“Only a half dozen,” he said. “You will be safe here.”

“I have naught to fear amongst my own,” she retorted, “but you will need more than six to see you safe to Conisborough.”

“The castle is in our hands now,” he said, “as are Barnard Castle, Middleham, Beverley, Pontefract, and most others of any strength. If I need more men, I shall have them right swiftly, and there has been no time for the rebels to reorganize, in any case. You will not be rid of me so easily, mistress. Remember that and behave yourself.” He glanced again at Jonet. “Are you well, Mistress Hawkins? You have lost much of your color.”

She straightened. “I am perfectly stout, sir.”

Alys managed a smile. “She is concerned lest you decide to leave her large guardian behind to plague her, sir. He follows her rather closely, as though he does not trust her to look out for herself, but she does not like to complain to you.”

“Hugh stays,” he said. “If I am gone, I want him here.”

“I should have thought that taking only six, you would want him along. He is big enough to count for another half dozen.”

Sir Nicholas smiled but shook his head. Then, after another speculative glance at Jonet, he left them.

Alys sighed. “I hope you will not refuse to fetch me a damp cloth at least, Jonet, to cool my brow. I swear I shall not be answerable for my actions if I am not to be allowed that much.”

“I’ll fetch it, my lady, and send for warm water to wash your face. There be fires still, and young Ian will oblige us.”

Ian brought warm water willingly and seemed inclined to linger until Alys asked him how his back was. Flushing, he insisted it was all but healed, and balked at allowing Jonet to examine him. Alys was having none of that.

“Remove your tunic and shirt, Ian, and let Mistress Hawkins see, or I shall complain to Sir Nicholas that you are obstinate.”

The lad grimaced but obeyed her without another murmur. Nor did he complain when Jonet fetched the salve. As she rubbed it into his flesh, she said to Alys, “He would not allow me to look this morning or yesterday, and though it had ought to be done each day, I did not like to complain of him to Sir Nicholas.”

“Well, I shall have no such scruples,” Alys said firmly. “Do you hear me, Ian?”

“Aye, mistress.” He put his shirt on again and laced it, then donned his tunic, apparently in no hurry to leave. “Be there aught else ye would ha’ me do, mistress?”

She was tempted to order a tub of hot water, but a glance at Jonet decided her against it. “Not now, Ian, but ask me again after we have eaten. Perchance there will be something then.”

“Aye, mistress.” He left them.

Jonet brought her a cloth damped in the warm water. “’Twas kind of you not to rebuff him, my lady. Yon lad seems to feel himself under an obligation to you.”

“Well, he need not,” Alys retorted, uncomfortable that Ian should feel such a thing. Scrubbing her face, she muttered, “Had it not been for me, he would not have been flogged at all.”

“Aye, but he fails to see the matter in that light. He knows he failed in his duty, and accepts his punishment. ’Twas your care of him afterward that matters, for I warrant no one has done such a thing for him before. A Scotsman, he be. Heathen savages, the lot of them. Your kindness to the poor laddie—”

“Enough, Jonet. Help me.” Alys did not want to hear about kindness. The whole conversation served only to remind her of Ian’s screams and her own guilt. Once she felt a bit cleaner and Jonet had helped her change to a fresh shift, she sat wrapped in an herb-scented robe and watched the woman strip her pallet of its rank-smelling covers and replace them. But when Jonet straightened with the bundle of old bedding in her arms, Alys saw the deep lines in her face, the dark hollows beneath her eyes. “In the name of heaven,” she said sharply, “you must rest.”

“We shall both do so after we have eaten,” Jonet agreed.

But it was more than an hour before Ian and another man brought their dinner, and by then the novelty of fresh bedding and fairly clean skin had worn off and Alys was more conscious than ever of her filthy hair. Jonet had plaited it and twisted the plaits into a coil at the back of her head, but Alys had refused a covering, insisting that it would only add to the weight of her hair and bring back her headache. Jonet had not argued. She looked as if she had a headache of her own.

She admitted it after they had eaten, and made no effort to argue when Alys ordered her to her pallet to sleep.

“Aye, m’lady, I can do with some rest,” she said wanly, obeying at once. She was sound asleep when Ian returned twenty minutes later to collect their dishes.

“Will there be aught else the noo, mistress?”

She glanced at Jonet, but the woman was so deeply asleep that she had not even stirred at his entrance. Alys looked speculatively at Ian, wondering if his master had thought it necessary to leave the lad with specific orders regarding what she might or might not do.

“I must wash my hair, Ian,” she said, striving to sound casual but firm, and watching him closely for the slightest sign of hesitation. She did not doubt from his recent behavior that he would do whatever she asked of him; however, she would not allow him to disobey any order that Sir Nicholas had given him.

But Ian showed no such hesitation. He glanced at Jonet. “Shall I wake her then?”

“On no account,” Alys said. “She must have her sleep, so you will have to help me. Can you fetch more hot water and help me do it here? I shall need a tub for the rinsing, too. In the usual way of things, I should do it outside, even at the river, but I doubt I am strong enough yet for that.”

“Och, ye mustna gae ootside, mistress,” the lad said, “but I ha’ niver helped a wooman wash her hair afore.”

“I will tell you what to do,” she promised, casting another look at Jonet to reassure herself that she was deeply asleep.

When Ian had gone for the water, Alys got up quickly and hurried to find a clean skirt and a front-lacing bodice, so she would be decently clad when he returned. She also unearthed her French soap and herbs for the rinse water.

The business of washing her hair was not by any means a silent affair, for when Alys discovered that she still lacked the strength to hold up her arms long enough to accomplish even the simple task of unplaiting her hair, Ian had to help her, and afterward when it was all she could do to hold herself over the tub, he poured buckets of water over her head and lathered it with her soap. It was not long before they both forgot Jonet. The first time Ian poured water down Alys’s neck instead of over her hair, she let out a shriek of laughter and commanded him to pay more heed to his actions. But Ian lacked a certain deftness required for the task, and by the time he was finished, both were soaked and giddy with laughter.

Ian handed her the thick linen towel she had put ready near the tub. It, too, was damp, but she managed to catch most of her long hair in it and to wrap the towel around her head, sitting back upon her heels to look up at him.

“I shall treasure Jonet more than ever after this,” she said, adding with a guilty glance at the sleeping woman, “She must be worn to the bone to sleep like that.” Turning back to Ian, she chuckled again, for his leather sleeves were soaked through and the entire front of him was in a like condition.

He looked down at himself, shook his head, and said, “I washed one o’ m’ dogs once when it coom in covered wi’ muck, but I doot I were sich a mess after as what I am the noo, mistress.”

She laughed. “Ian, I must go outside to dry my hair in the sun. Can you fix a sheltered place for me to sit?”

“Aye,” he said, turning to go. But before he had taken a second step, he stopped, stiffening.

His body blocked Alys’s view, and she craned her neck to see around him, gasping when she saw Sir Nicholas standing there.

Glaring at her, he said, “Leave us, Ian. I will deal with you later.”

“No!” Alys leapt to her feet so swiftly that her head swam, and she reached out distractedly to steady herself. When Ian moved to help, Sir Nicholas pushed him aside and grabbed her, but the moment he touched her, she found her wits and snapped, “Ian did not disobey you! You never told him—”

“I know I did not,” he said. “I shall not make the same mistake again. But I did tell Mistress Hawkins, so how—”

“She is asleep.”

“Nonsense, how can she—” He broke off, letting go of her to kneel swiftly by Jonet. His next words came over his shoulder like whip cracks. “Ian, get the Lady Alys out of here, and send Hugh to me. This woman is not asleep; she’s unconscious!”

“No!” Alys cried, eluding Ian to fly to Jonet’s side.

She could not evade Sir Nicholas so easily, however. He swept her up into his arms and carried her from the tent. “Hugh,” he bellowed as he ducked through the flap, “to me!”

Helplessly, Alys sobbed against his shoulder.

A
LYS SCARCELY HEARD WHAT
Sir Nicholas said to Hugh when he came, but when she realized that Sir Nicholas was taking her away from the tent, she struggled wildly to free herself, terrified about Jonet’s illness, but it did her no good. She even tried to pull his sword from its scabbard, thinking she could force him to release her, but the sword was too long, too unwieldy. He did not even attempt to stop her from tugging at it but carried her quickly to another tent, where he set her abruptly on her feet. When he turned to leave, she grabbed his mail-clad arm. “Wait! Don’t leave me here. I must be with her.”

“You will not,” he snapped. “You are still weak from your own illness, and for all I know, you can get it again, from her. I will send someone for the herb woman, but you are not to go near Mistress Hawkins. If I must, I will set one of the men to guard you to see that you do not leave this tent. Do you understand?”

Tears spilled down her cheeks. “You cannot do this. Jonet will die. She is exhausted from looking after me, so she cannot fight the sickness. I must help her.”

She thought she saw compassion in his eyes and hoped he would relent, but his voice was hard when he said, “Then you pray for her, mistress, for only God can help her now. There is a prie-dieu yonder.” When she opened her mouth to argue, he added implacably, “You might give thanks first that I have no time right now to discuss your defiance of my orders. Just how did you propose to dry your hair?”

She raised a hand to the towel still wrapped around her head. In her agitation over Jonet she had forgotten her wet hair. Frustrated but wary, she bit her lip and fell silent.

Sir Nicholas glanced around the dimly lit tent. It was smaller and more Spartan than the one she had occupied with Jonet, lacking such luxuries as a washstand, stool, and thick pallets. And although it was warm from the sunlight outside, there was no place to sit but upon the prie-dieu or the ground. He said, “I will send one of the lads to help you.”

“I can do it myself,” she muttered, “outside in the sun. I will just get my brush from the other t—”

“No.”

“But—”

“I will send Tom back with your brush. You find a place near the cook fires where you are in plain sight. And you had best have that tunic off before you go. It is wet.”

Her arms snapped protectively across her breasts. “No!”

A glint of amusement lit his eyes. “I see. Tom will bring some of your things over. See that you are decently clad before you step outside,
mi geneth.
” He was gone.

Her bosom swelled with resentment before memory of Jonet’s illness swept over her again and the sobs came, wracking her body. She sank to the floor, giving way to a despair she had not felt since Anne’s passing. All her life it had been Jonet upon whom she depended, Jonet to whom she had gone as a child when she had hurt herself or been punished for her misdeeds. Jonet had wiped her tears and tended her hurts, bathed her, dressed her, and heard her prayers after tucking her into her cot at night. And now Jonet would die, for the sickness was terrible. She knew as much from her own experience. Though she was young and strong and rarely ill, she had nearly died. Jonet was old—well past thirty—and weak from worry. Jonet’s death would be her fault, for not only had she pushed her to journey in a single day from Drufield to Wolveston through the dreadful rain, but then she had fallen ill, and Jonet had neglected herself to care for her.

Alys was still sobbing when Ian entered, carrying an armful of her belongings. “He ha’ sent Tom for the herb wooman,” he said, and when she did not reply, he stood for a moment, watching her, before he said, “Shall I gang awa’ again, mistress?”