Page 13 of The Rose at Twilight

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?”

She struggled to control herself. “No, this towel is soaked through, and so is my bodice. I must put something else on, and I must dry my hair. He will blame you if I become ill again.”

“Nay, mistress, he willna,” Ian said. “He did say he kens weel it were nane o’ my doing. He’s a fair mon, is the master.”

She looked at him. “You like him.” When Ian nodded, she sniffed and said, “Well, I like him, too, when he is not being as stubborn as a”—She hesitated, because the saying was as stubborn as a Scotsman, and that would not do—“as any other Welshman,” she ended, eyeing him apologetically.

Ian smiled. “There disna be a Welshman breathing who’s as stubborn as me auld dad, mistress. Master did find yer comb and brush,” he added, holding the articles out to her before he set her bundles down. “He said I wasna tae linger.”

Taking the boar’s-bristle brush and tortoiseshell comb, she forced herself to ask the question, “How fares Mistress Hawkins?”

“They canna wake her,” Ian said gently.

Dropping comb and brush, Alys rubbed the tears from her cheeks, jumped to her feet, and rushed to the opening.

Ian barred her way. “You canna gae to her, mistress. I’m tae stop you, an you try.”

She stared desperately up at him, making no attempt now to stem her tears. “I must.”

“Nay, ye mustna. Goorthfan Gower’s looking after ’er.”

She blinked, bewildered. “Who?”

Ian flushed. “That’s how it sounds when yon Welshmen say his name, mistress, though I niver heard the like, m’self.

The big ’un. I ha’ heard Mistress Hawkins call him Hugh Gower, which be a sight easier tae say, but I darena call him so.

She disna fancy him, but he did say he’d look after her at least till the herb wooman cooms, and belike till we depart, wi’ the dawnin’. ”

“At dawn?” Alys was dismayed. “We cannot leave her!”

“Master said—”

“Fetch him!”

“But—”

“Do not argue, Ian. Fetch him. Now.” She yanked the damp towel from her head, letting the sodden mass of hair fall to her hips.

Lifting her chin as she shoved wet strands back over her shoulders with her free hand, she said, “You tell him that not a step will I take outside this tent until I do speak with him. If I die of an ague through not getting out into the sun to dry my hair, the blame will rest squarely upon his shoulders.”

Ian left at once, and Alys paced the floor impatiently. There were no more tears. Crying would not help. She needed her wits about her if she was to convince Sir Nicholas to stay.

He came at once, and his mood was clearly precarious, for he was frowning and the first words out of his mouth were curtly spoken. “What is it? Why are you not yet out drying your hair? The sun will soon be too low to do you any good.”

“There is a breeze,” she told him. “My hair will dry.” Then, drawing a long breath, she said firmly, “Sir Nicholas, Ian tells me that you have decided we are to depart tomorrow. I have not yet regained my full strength, and in any case, I cannot possibly leave with Jonet still so ill.”

His mouth tightened. “We must go. The king will be in London by now and expects my lads to be close behind him. We are already days late leaving, and as it is, your state of health will prevent our traveling as rapidly as I should like.”

“But we cannot leave her! Who will look after her?”

“The herb woman will care for her. We cannot take her, my lady. She would carry the infection wherever we go.”

“I will not go without her, Sir Nicholas.”

“I have explained that you have no choice. The king—”

“I do not care a rap for your Tudor usurper. I love Jonet!”

“I can make allowance for your affection,” he said sternly, “but I warn you, have a care for how you speak of the king.”

“Why?” she cried, unable to stem her tears any longer. “Will you execute me for treason when I tell you I hate him?”

“Nage, mi geneth,” he said more gently, “but ’tis a habit too dangerous for me to allow you to indulge yourself in it.”

“I do not know how you will stop me!” Dashing a hand across her eyes in an ineffective attempt to clear her vision, she added fiercely, “I won’t let you take me from her!”

Still blinded by tears, she did not see him move toward her, was not aware that he had done so until his hands came to rest upon her shoulders.

Then, certain he meant to shake her, she braced herself, but he did not.

Instead he did nothing at all for so long that she became aware of the warmth of his hands on her shoulders, the nearness of his large body to hers.

Her breath caught in her throat, and her tears ceased.

The silence lengthened. She could smell the leather of his brigandine and hear muted sounds from the men outside, sounds that soon faded until she heard only his breathing.

His hands tightened. She licked suddenly dry lips, and her hands moved of their own accord to his chest, where she felt the small, overlapping metal plates beneath the outer covering of his brigandine.

A memory stirred of Neddie, expounding upon new-learned knowledge, trying to explain why the plates overlapped upward instead of downward—something to do with the way a man’s chest was formed—but Sir Nicholas’s chest, hard beneath her palms, was entirely too close to allow her mind to catch the fleeting memory. He still did not move or speak.

She darted a glance at his face and found his expression puzzling, for he was looking at her almost as though he had never seen her before.

His lips were parted; his eyes, like deep-set dark gray pools in the dim light of the tent, had lost their harshness.

But as the thought crossed her mind that he must be at a loss for what to say to her, he shifted his weight and the flintlike expression returned.

Briefly, his grip on her shoulders tightened, bruising her; then she was free.

He said, “There is no point to continuing this conversation, for I must obey my king’s orders just as you must obey mine. Mistress Hawkins will remain behind. Has she family hereabouts?”