Page 2 of The Rose at Twilight

“Lady Alys?” His voice was deep with an unusual lilt in it, his accent gentle, not one she recognized but pleasant nonetheless and soothing to the ear.

“Aye,” she said. “I am Alys Wolveston. How is it that you know my name?”

“We have been looking for your arrival these two days past,” he said. “You are older than I had expected.”

She lifted her chin an inch higher, carrying herself, albeit unconsciously, much as the late queen had done. “My age is of some consequence to you then?”

He shook his head. “Your father spoke of his little daughter. I expected to greet a plentyn, a child.”

“I am eighteen,” she said casually, as though she had been eighteen for a very long time, not a mere three weeks.

“’Tis odd you are not wedded then,” he said crisply.

She gritted her teeth at the arrogance of the man. “Who are you, if I may be so bold as to inquire?”

“I am called Nicholas ap Dafydd ab Evan ap Gwilym of the house of Merion,” he said. “Englishmen who cannot wrap their tongues around our Welsh consonants do call me Nick Merion.”

“Do they?” She frowned. “Does my father call you so?”

A shadow crossed the stranger’s face. “Things are bad here, my lady. ’Tis why we rode out to intercept you.”

“Intercept? Why, whatever can you mean?”

“There is sickness at Wolveston Hazard. You must prepare yourself for grave news.”

“Sickness?” She had known there was sickness in Yorkshire, for letters mentioning that fact had been received at Drufield, but she had not heard of any outbreak at Wolveston, and his attitude frightened her, making her stomach clench as if it were trying to tie itself in knots. “What sickness? Not plague!”

“Nay, ’tis too early in the year for plague,” he said.

“’Tis an ailment unknown to me, but ’tis truly terrible withal.

Men grow ill, begin sweating heavily, and die within hours.

’Tis not unknown for a seemingly healthy one to drop down dead even as he speaks.

Some say ’tis a new sickness altogether, come to England with the Tudor army, but I have seen naught of it before now.

Many are dead or dying, my lady. Some, my own men, but English only, not Welsh, French, or Scot. ”

“My father? My mother?”

He grimaced. “There is no way to gentle such news, mistress. Your mother is dead. She died yestereve. Your father was healthy until this morning, but now he, too, lies ill. And your little brother died some few hours before your mother.”

Alys sensed Jonet stiffening beside her and knew the older woman’s reaction must match her own.

Remembering that the man facing her was an enemy, she managed with effort to control her emotions, to keep the astonishment she felt from showing on her usually expressive countenance.

She dared not look at Jonet, knowing the woman would never so far forget her place as to speak without being spoken to—not before a stranger, in any case.

Swallowing first so that she might command her voice, she said carefully, “My brother, Roger, and my woman’s brother, who serves him, were with Viscount Lovell. We feared them both dead like their master on the Plain of Redmore, at the place Henry Tudor called Sandeton.”

Merion shook his head. “The lad who died had not been at Bosworth Field, my lady, which is how the site is truly called. Though he was old enough to serve, the lad was gentle and soft, with more the look of a scholar about him, like your father, than that of a knight. I would judge him to have seen only twelve or fourteen winters, old enough to be fostered, certainly. I own, I was surprised to learn that he was a child of the castle, but the servants assured me that he was your brother Robert. Young Paul, you will be relieved to know, left Wolveston some weeks ago to join his foster family. We must discover his whereabouts. Do you know where he has gone?”

Alys shook her head, her thoughts racing as she murmured, “My mother and father were poor correspondents.” The words were true enough, and she would not lie to him if she could avoid it, but again she sensed movement from her companion and could not be surprised.

Her brothers Robert and Paul had both died eight years before.

The most likely explanation that she could call to mind was that, for reasons of their own, the servants had sought to protect the identity of the son of a more prominent Yorkist family by claiming him as Wolveston’s own.

But why, she asked herself, would they lie about a second son, one who was safely gone?

“I must see Robert’s body,” she said, not wanting to do any such thing but knowing that she must.

“I cannot allow you to enter the castle,” he said. “The sickness spreads too quickly—we know not how—and I will be held to account for your well-being.”

“Not enter my own father’s castle?” Her eyes flashed.

“Do not be daft! I must speak with my father before he dies, and I must see my brother’s body.

My mother’s, too,” she added as an afterthought.

“I cannot imagine why you believe you may order me as you choose, for I do not know you and have only your word even for your name, which is an odd one, to be sure. To speak plainly, Master Merion, I have no reason to believe one word you have told me. You must explain yourself more clearly, I think.”

“I am the king’s man,” he said quietly and with a visible effort to be patient.

“I have been charged with ascertaining the loyalties of certain lords of the north. If your brother Roger did indeed fight with Viscount Lovell at Bosworth, then he is a traitor to the crown and will be punished if he lives. Wolveston Hazard is likely to become crown land.”

“But Roger does not own the castle,” she said, cursing her hasty tongue for having revealed her brother’s loyalties.

She had been so intent upon keeping Merion from guessing the truth—that her shock came not so much from hearing of the deaths in her family as from learning that somehow two new brothers had been added to it—that she had divulged the one piece of information that could mean Roger’s death, if he were not dead already.

“Though women have been known to survive this sickness,” Merion said in a gentler tone, “few men do. Your father will pass to his reward before morning, so if Roger is your eldest living brother, he will inherit, will he not? In Wales, where I come from, land is divided amongst all a man’s heirs, but that is not the case here in England.

” He paused, eyebrows creasing thoughtfully.

“’Tis a better way, this, for land is power and therefore better left undivided.

Nonetheless, your brother will most likely be named in a bill of attainder if he lives, my lady.

That means he will lose his civil rights and titles, and—”

“I know what attainder means,” she snapped. “’Tis a sentence of death!”

“Not always,” he said, “but until his fate is ascertained, I have orders to deliver you into the king’s wardship.”

Alys stared at him, fighting to conceal her dismay. “I am to become the king’s ward?”

“Aye, mistress.” He regarded her closely, as though he wondered if she would treat him to a display of feminine emotion.

But Alys was made of sterner stuff than that and, despite her whirling thoughts, retained her calm demeanor. “Shall I be allowed to return to Wolveston Hazard when all is safe again?”

“I do not know,” he said. “My orders are to see you safe to London, nothing more.”

She was surprised. “You had specific orders regarding me? I had not realized my own importance, Master Merion, nor that the Tudor so much as knew of my existence.”

“His grace, the king,” Merion said with gentle emphasis, “knows naught of you as yet, my lady. I was sent by Sir Robert Willoughby, who has been entrusted with seeing the Princess Elizabeth and young Edward of Warwick safe returned to London.”

Alys nodded. So Elizabeth had told the Tudor’s men where to find her, and no doubt somehow had suggested to Sir Robert the desirability of her wardship.

The Princess Elizabeth. How she would love that, Alys thought, to be acknowledged a princess again.

“You have come from Sheriff Hutton then,” she said.

“No doubt the princess expressed deep concern for my welfare.”

His look sharpened, and she gave him full marks for insight.

He said gravely, “She was distressed, my lady, for she believed that although you might not have been allowed to leave Drufield Manor at once when word reached Lord Drufield of a Tudor victory, your father would soon command your return to Wolveston Hazard, and she worried lest harm should befall you on your journey. My men and I were dispatched at once. We rode here first, since we might otherwise have missed you, and when I discovered the situation at the castle, I was glad we had done so. I trust there has been no sickness at Drufield.”

“No.”

Before either could say more, a youth on a light chestnut gelding drew in close to Merion. “Sir,” he said deferentially, “them clouds yonder be a-boiling up black and fiercelike again, I’m thinking. Best we get the ladies under cover.”

Merion looked to the west where the clouds were indeed stirring ominously. He nodded. “We have pitched tents at the foot of the castle hill, my lady. We will take shelter there for the night and leave for London at sunup.”

“Master Merion, I cannot—”

“Beg pardon, m’lady,” said the young man at his side, “but he be Sir Nicholas Merion. My meistr be a knight banneret, his pennant tails cut off by the king hisself at Bosworth Field.”

“Hush, Tom,” said Merion gently. “Lady Alys did not know.”

The younger man looked indignantly at the banner snapping damply in the breeze, then back at his master, but something in Merion’s expression kept him from blurting his opinions aloud.