Page 14 of The Rose at Twilight

Alys nearly mentioned Davy, then remembering with regret that Sir Nicholas was the enemy, and the Tudor’s own man, she realized that she could not do so. “Her sister Mary lives in Doncaster, I think,” she said gruffly.

“Then we will arrange with the Bawtry monks to get word to her. That must suffice.” And with that, he was gone, leaving her to stare after him in dismay.

Jonet’s sister was older. What if she had died?

What if she was away or just could not come?

And who would care for Jonet till Mary came?

But she had no power over him. Though he had clearly weakened in those few brief seconds, she had no idea why he had done so, and it did not matter, anyway, because he had recollected himself all too soon.

She had to think, and the best way she could imagine to do so at the moment was to proceed with drying her hair.

Removing the wet bodice, she found a simple red woolen loose gown in one of the bundles and slipped it over her head.

Tying the ties at the neckline, she fastened a colorful tapestry bodice over it, lacing and tying it at the waist with gold cording.

There was no need for girdle or belt, and the day was warm enough so that she needed no other wrap.

Outside, she found a sheltered place to sit near the cook fires, settled herself, and began to draw her brush slowly and carefully, as she had been taught, through her tangled, damp tresses.

It was a tedious, difficult procedure, one she was accustomed to having someone else—usually Jonet—do for her, and soon her right arm was too tired to wield the brush.

She rested it in her lap and wondered what on earth she would do on the journey, not to mention in London, without Jonet.

The breeze was gentle. It scarcely stirred her wet hair. She raised her brush again, not caring now about the new tears wetting her cheeks. She tried changing hands, attempting to brush with her left, but it was not even as strong as the right. After three strokes, she quit in frustration.

“Give me the brush, mi geneth ,” Sir Nicholas said gently behind her, “or it will never be dry.”

She looked up in surprise. He had changed out of his mail chausses into tawny hose and leather buskins, but he still wore his brigandine, and though he had removed his sword and baldric, his dagger was suspended through a metal ring at the brigandine’s waist. Wordlessly, she handed him the brush, and if he was not as efficient as Jonet, he was stronger, and he made little work of drawing the brush through her long hair.

She was certain he must have things he would rather be doing, but when she suggested that one of his men might replace him at the task, his response was brief, spoken with a curtness she had come to recognize as his way of saying he did not want to discuss the matter.

Her hair was still damp when the evening meal was served, but the night was warm, and she did not fear catching a chill.

Before she retired to her bed, she plaited the tresses as Jonet always had, and if the job was not as neat, at least it was done.

Alone in the empty tent, she listened to the sounds of the men in the camp, prayed for Jonet, and racked her brain for a way to convince Sir Nicholas to stay at Wolveston until Jonet was well or, God forbid, until she died; but, when morning came, Alys had not even thought of a way to convince him to let her see Jonet.

The camp awoke earlier than usual. Sir Nicholas wanted to be away by dawn’s light, and at that time of year, the dawn came almost on the heels of the dark. There was a fog, but he made it clear that he had no intention of allowing it to delay him.

Alys had no immediate chance to debate his decision with him, for he sent his squire and Ian to wake her.

“How fares Mistress Hawkins?” she demanded, sitting up and clutching the covering close about her.

“She still lives, mistress,” Tom said.

“Then I would see her,” Alys told him. “I’ll go at once.”

Ian said, “Nay, mistress, the master ha’ said you mun be ready when the others be, or he’ll coom hisself tae dress you.”

She did not doubt him, but the thought of simply riding off and leaving Jonet was nearly too much to bear. “I do not know how I shall get on without her,” she said, choking back tears.

Tom stammered, “ Meistr knows you be not accustomed to looking after yourself, m’lady, and he did say we are to help you as much as you do let us—Ian and me—even though you be not accustomed to menservants in and out, like most folks be at home.

He did say, in sooth, that you do be accustomed to bathing with only other womenfolk about.

” His expression showed his doubt at such an unusual inclination for privacy.

She smiled wanly. “I was raised in a royal household, Tom, or as near as makes no difference. I was fostered at Middleham, the home of our late king when he was yet Duke of Gloucester and Lord of the North. Things were different there. But perchance your master will find a village woman to accompany me to London.”

He shook his head. “Many in the village do be sick, mistress, and he will allow none to go with us, for fear they will carry the sweat south.”

Ian added, “Like as not, a village wooman’d no be able tae keep up wi’ us, mistress. The Welshman rides swift.”

“But I have been ill,” she reminded him.

“Aye, but ye’re a bonny guid horsewooman, as we saw for ourselves, mistress. A village wooman—”

“Oh, take yourselves off,” Alys snapped, exasperated, “but mind, you tell your precious master that if he thinks he will force me to ride breakneck to the Tudor’s waiting arms, he had best think again, for if he tries it, I shall make it a point to expire on the way, if only for the pleasure of knowing my death will displease the usurper.

” When both young men stared unhappily back at her, making no move to obey her command, she glared at them. “Go! Tell him!”

“Methinks,” Tom said cautiously, “that we shall tell him you are well nigh ready to depart, m’lady. I have no wish to measure my length upon the ground, and I have no doubt that if I were to speak so rudely to the meistr , that would be my fate.”

She looked at Ian.

His face, even in the gloomy light of the tent, appeared to have turned nearly the same bright red as his hair, but he said staunchly, “If ye do wish such a message taken to him, mistress, I will do yer bidding, though I have a mither and father at home in Pitlochery who will sairely miss their only son.”

She had been ready to tell him that she certainly wanted him to bear her message, but his mournful tone and the heavy sigh that accompanied his words made her bite her lip instead.

She knew she was close to tears and had no wish for them to linger.

“I would not endanger you, Ian. I will tell him myself.”

Relieved, they left her to dress herself, and that was an ordeal, for her traveling dress laced up the back.

It seemed as if wherever she turned, her desperate need for Jonet was there to aggrieve her.

Twenty minutes later, when Ian called to her to ask if she needed assistance, she replied tearfully and without the least thought for modesty, “Indeed, I do. I cannot manage these cursed laces. Come and see if you can do them up for me.”

He came at once and attended to the problem, making no comment about her tearstained face, and turning afterward to tie up the sumpter packs she had not yet bound. Swinging several of these to his shoulders at once, he stepped toward the entrance.

Alys said gravely, “I do not deserve such kindness from you, Ian, but I thank you for it.”

He smiled over his shoulder at her. “You were kind tae me, mistress. I dinna hold it tae your account that the master had me flogged. I didna do m’ duty, and he might ha’ been a deal the harsher. I willna fail him again, nor will I forget yer kindness or that o’ Mistress Hawkins.”

When the tent flap fell into place behind him, Alys stood for a moment, staring at it.

She had begun to think she might simply slip away during the commotion that always accompanied preparation for a journey.

Believing she had only to get to the river where, especially under cover of the fog, she could count on finding one of her old hiding places, she had briefly hoped that such a plan might allow her to stay behind with Jonet.

But the thought that someone else might suffer for her actions, as Ian had done before, deterred her now.

Donning her scarlet cloak and her gloves, she stepped outside the tent at last, and saw at once that her plan would not have succeeded.

Sir Nicholas was not hurrying thither and yon, shouting orders to his men, as she had thought he would be, but was sitting at his ease upon one large pack, leaning against a pile of others, watching her tent.

He lifted a hand in greeting when he saw her, and got to his feet.

“I have bread and ale for you, mi geneth ,” he said. “The fires were quenched earlier, but I would not have you starve.”

“Yet you would tear me from the only person who loves me when she needs me most, and … and force me to wait upon myself, as well,” she added abruptly, certain he would mock so desperate a need for a simple waiting woman.

She lifted her chin. “I am not accustomed to such treatment, sir. I shall look a sad sight by the time we reach London, but no doubt that is how the usurper would have all his captives treated.”

“You may be grateful that you are not to be treated as most of his captives were treated,” he retorted grimly.

Her face paled and her throat went dry. “We heard only that the battle was short, that many did die. Were there so many taken captive? Were they ill-treated?”

He was silent for a moment, then said more gently, “Most did flee at once when it became clear that our forces must prevail.”