Page 10 of The Rose at Twilight

H ER BODY WAS BURNING up. Her head ached, and her stomach felt as though knives were cutting her from within. Worst of all was that she felt too weak to move, even to open her eyes. There were voices, low but angry, both of them, arguing about water.

Water. Alys tried to speak. She would give her best gown and girdle for a sip of water. It was no use. She could not move, and she seemed to have no control over her voice.

“Nay, tha’ mustna!” The crackling voice was familiar but not so much so that she could identify the speaker. “Sithee, t’ sickness mun be sweated from ’er.”

The voice took her back to her father’s deathbed, to an echo of the puzzling words he had muttered.

He seemed to be in the tent now, straight and strong as he had been before she went away to Middleham.

She tried to call him, but he faded when a voice said, “She is delirious; she will die without water.” The voice was not her father’s.

It was Nicholas, Sir Nicholas, the Tudor’s man, the enemy.

Without opening her eyes, she could see him, could almost feel the crispness of his curls beneath her palm.

Why could she not move her hands? It was as though she were tied up, her arms bound to her sides, her feet so heavy she could not stir them.

A cold, damp cloth touched her lips and blessedly cool water trickled down her parched throat.

Then the cloth moved over her cheeks, her forehead, cooling them. She slept.

Her dreams were no comfort. Monsters threatened her, and dark, bottomless chasms opened beneath her feet when she walked.

A black tunnel loomed before her, and from its depths a distant light beckoned.

A voice called to her, Elizabeth’s voice.

But Elizabeth was at Sheriff Hutton with Neddie—gentle Neddie, now the rightful Earl of Warwick.

But he would never be what his formidable grandfather had been, nor even his father.

He was not guileful like Clarence was. But Neddie and Elizabeth were not at Sheriff Hutton.

She remembered now. They were … somewhere.

There were monsters again, and the heat, the dreadful heat.

She had to move, to get away from it. Someone was holding her.

She struggled, fighting this monster who would force her down into the flames, and then suddenly she was free, but it was as if she were falling, still struggling as she plunged and whirled, down and down.

The heat was terrifying. Then she was caught and someone held her again, this time someone stronger than she was.

So strong, in fact, that it was useless to struggle anymore.

The voice calling to her had weakened while her thoughts were diverted, but she could hear it again now and was tempted to follow it, to step into that dark tunnel, to see what lay beyond. Anything would be better than the flames, and the pain.

“No, Alys.” Only two words, but the voice unmistakable.

Anne’s voice—gentle, sorrowful, firm. The tunnel faded.

She became aware of other voices, nearer at hand.

One was Jonet’s, another Sir Nicholas’s.

There were at least two others. Oddly pleased with herself for recognizing the fact that there were four voices, Alys slept again, heavily and without the dreams.

The next time she awoke, she heard something altogether different. Someone was playing a lute and singing in a deep, pleasant voice, in a lilting language she had never heard before. Curiosity lent her strength, and she forced her eyes open.

At first she saw only the warm orange glow from the oil lamp, casting dark, dancing shadows on the walls of the tent.

It was enough to remind her of where she was, and she wanted to see who was singing.

Her mind suggested a name, but the very thought of it was absurd.

He would not sing to her. And her imagination boggled when she tried to envision a graceful lute in his hands.

But it was Sir Nicholas, sitting on a joint stool by her pallet.

The lute looked ridiculously small in his large hands, cradled against his broad chest, but his expression was gentle.

When her gaze met his, she saw his satisfaction, but his voice did not falter, and she was glad.

He had a wonderful voice for singing, deep and full.

She could not understand a word of the song, but it comforted her, and she wanted him to go on and on.

When he fell silent at last, she said in a raspy voice that sounded completely unlike her own, “What was that?”

“A Welsh ballad,” he said quietly. “Only a tale of a boy and his sheep, but I liked it when I was a lad and fond of roaming, when I could, with the shepherds in the hills near my home. My mother used to sing it to me. How do you feel?”

“Hungry,” she said, “and thirsty.”

“Good,” he said. “We have broth keeping warm over a fire, and young Ian rode to Bawtry Priory to fetch bread for you.”

“You made Ian go?” Indignation put energy into her voice.

“He wanted to go,” Sir Nicholas told her, getting up and setting the instrument aside.

“Your young Scotsman does not trust the English monks to give any of the other men fresh bread. He’s always had an eye for the lasses,” he added with a wry smile, “but I think you have become rather special to him. Rest now. I’ll send someone with your broth. ”

She dozed again, but the sound of others in the tent soon roused her, and she made no objection when Sir Nicholas knelt to raise her so that Jonet could put cushions behind her. When he let her lie back again, she sighed, exhausted.

“I am as limp as a rag,” she muttered, “and my skin feels as if it might crack, like a hide that has been dried in the sun.”

“Both feelings will pass,” he said. “I shall leave you to Mistress Hawkins now. Let her feed you.” He said the last as though he thought she must be commanded to allow Jonet to serve her, but before she had time to protest, he was gone.

Jonet said quietly, “We thought we had lost thee.”

“I do have the sickness then,” Alys murmured. “I thought that must be it. But why did I not die?”

“We thought tha’ didst, just before yon fever broke.

Tha’ wert wild wi’ it,” she went on, her renewed distress evident to anyone who knew her by the stronger hint of Yorkshire in her accent.

“Tha’ fought me till I couldna hold thee.

That were when Sir Nicholas came and said he’d look after thee himself.

He said women sometimes do survive, though men rarely, and he meant to see thee through.

But then, after the wildness, tha’ wert so still we thought thee gone.

He shouted at thee, bellowing thy name, and commanding thee to live.

And when tha’ didst stir, I thought the lad would weep like a wee bairn.

Though he did no such thing,” she added more briskly, recollecting herself.

“I suppose you think him kind,” Alys said, “but he did say before that he will be blamed for aught that happens to me.”

“Aye,” Jonet agreed, but her tone was dubious.

“’Twas a dire sickness, my lady, terrible to behold.

Before you grew so wild, we had that herb woman here—the same as stayed with his lordship—but Sir Nicholas sent her away when she said giving you water would kill you.

He said he could not believe it would do any such thing.

You were crying out for it so, and you were so hot!

He just wanted to cool you, I think. He is a kind man, mistress, for all that he be a Welshman and at one with the Tudor.

” She held up a horn mug. “Drink this now.”

Alys sipped slowly. She could taste herbs and the flavor of beef, and it was good. She wanted more, but Alys shook her head. “He said you must not drink too much at once, or drink too fast.”

“He also said there was bread.”

“Aye, and so there be, but you are not to have it till we see you do keep this broth within.” Her voice sounded weary, and Alys looked at her. Jonet’s expression was haggard and careworn, and her eyes were dim, lacking their usual sparkle.

Fear leaped within her. “Jonet, are you ill?”

“Nay, my lady, only a wee bit tired. He told me to sleep, but ’tis not likely I could do so with my lamb ailing, and so I told him.

But he is not a man to cross, I can tell you.

The way he spoke when I refused to lie down made the blood freeze in my veins, so I did not dare argue when he ordered me to go away. ”

“He ordered you away?” Alys sipped again.

“Aye,” Jonet told her. “To begin, he let me lie down on my pallet yonder, but when he saw I was not likely to sleep there, he sent for one of his men to take me to another tent and see me laid down. ’Twas a lout name of Hugh with a lot of other names after, like Sir Nicholas has, and the biggest man I ever laid eyes upon.

An ugsome brute. Sithee, when I tell you he be the same as flogged poor Ian …

well, I shall say no more, but if I were a more timid sort nor what I am, he’d fair have raised the gooseflesh on my skin, and that be the truth of the matter. ”

“But what did he do?”

“He took me to another tent, yonder, and fetched out blankets, making it clear he meant to cover me with his own hands. But I was not going to allow that, I can tell you. I told him that he could take himself off, but he just stood like Goliath and said he would wait till I slept. Called me his wee minikin, too, as if I were six and not nigh onto five-and-thirty years of age. Have you ever heard the like?”

“Well, if he did not harm you,” Alys murmured sleepily, “I suppose he must have …” But she lost the thread of what she had been going to say, and her voice faded away.

When she awoke the next time, she felt stronger, and when Jonet asked if she might fancy more broth and a bit of bread, she agreed instantly. Jonet signed to someone behind her, and Alys saw Ian MacDougal standing in the entry.