Page 32 of The Rose at Twilight

“When I do find him.”

Alys had to be satisfied with that, for he would say no more. He finished his supper and departed. Alys and Ian spent the evening taking leave of their traveling companions, then carried their few belongings back to the house in the Kirkgate.

Two days later, when Alys, Jonet, and Ian returned from the church, where they had made their morning devotions, they found Davy and another man waiting for them in the tiny parlor, the latter dressed in a ragged shirt and breeches, a stained leather jerkin, and a large cap that had been pulled on in what looked to be an unsuccessful attempt to keep his shaggy hair out of his face.

Dismissing Ian, Alys greeted Davy with tense anticipation.

“Did you find him?” she demanded. “Will he see me?”

To her surprise, it was the other man who answered her. “He will, mistress.” With a glance at Davy, he added, “Privately.”

Davy, taking Jonet by the arm, drew her unprotesting from the room, leaving Alys alone with the stranger. Not until the man removed his cap and pushed his hair out of his face, did she recognize him for Lovell himself and make a hasty curtsy. “My lord, I beg your pardon. I did not know you.”

Lovell smiled, and she instantly recalled his charm.

He was in his thirty-first year and not uncomely, even in peasant clothes.

He motioned for her to sit, and when she had obeyed him he, too, sat down, saying, “Davy did say you have information for me, mistress. I thought it best to come to you, believing that my movements—in this guise, at any rate—would be less remarked upon than yours, coming to me.”

Suddenly nervous, Alys glanced around, saw that the door to the passage was ajar, and got up to fasten it shut.

Returning to her seat, she said quietly, “Sir, I do not know precisely how to begin, but I saw something rather startling when I returned to Wolveston Hazard ten days after the battle at Bosworth Field.”

“Did you?”

His expression was blank. He would not help her. Taking a deep breath, she said, “You will think me crazed for saying this, but I believe I saw one of the sons of our late King Edward.”

Lovell’s expression did not change. His tone was calm. “Where did you see this person?” he asked.

“At Wolveston.”

“And what were the circumstances?”

His calm had an effect, but her voice still trembled when she replied, “He was d-dead, sir, in a c-coffin.”

“What?” The viscount sat up with a jerk. Eyeing her intently, he snapped, “Why do you think it was one of the princes, my lady, and which do you believe it to have been?”

She gave him back look for look. “You do not deny the possibility, sir, but pray, what can a prince of the blood royal have been doing at Wolveston Hazard?”

“There is naught in that to concern you now. Answer me.”

She hesitated only a moment. “He looked like a Plantagenet, sir, all blond and … and … I do not know, in faith, but he did have a look of King Edward, not in size or shape but the Plantagenet look. You know what I mean. You must.”

“Very fair? But frail withal? A thin face?”

“Aye.”

“Was there …” He paused, looking at her again for a moment before he said, “Edward gave each of his sons a small, round medallion on a chain, engraved with his device, the sun—”

“The sun in splendor. I know. I saw no such thing, sir.”

“He would have worn it round his neck.”

“His collar was high. I saw nothing. But, sir, who else—”

Lovell sagged. “I do not know why I deny the truth. It must have been Edward. But what then of Richard?”

“They both were there then! ’Tis really true, sir?”

“Aye, for safety, Dickon did say. ’Twas better they were in the north, but not in Yorkshire, so Wolveston was chosen.

Dickon did say the old lord was not one to stir enemies, that he would not be suspect, especially with the others at Sheriff Hutton.

When it was learned that the Tudor had landed in Wales, Dickon decided to separate the lads—again for their safety—but he did not tell me the details. What has become of young Richard?”

“I do not know, sir. I was told only that he had gone away, to his fostering, they did say.”

“Did not the old lord … ah, but I was forgetting. Davy did tell me he died of the sweat, but naught was said of the lads, and I assumed they were away safe. Was no name mentioned, no foster family?” he asked, looking at her now very keenly.

“No, for it was the soldiers who came to fetch me who told me what little I know. But …” She hesitated, frowning as she searched her memory.

“My father did mention one name, but it cannot have had anything to do with Prince Richard, for the name he mentioned is that of a man who has submitted to the Tudor.”

“Who? There is one more likely than all others.”

“A man named Tyrell.”

Lovell relaxed. “James is never the Tudor’s man.”

“But he is! Sir James did swear fealty to the Tudor, just as Roger did. In faith, sir, he did retain his Welsh estates and his titles. The Tudor has even named him Sheriff of Glamorgan.”

“James is a clever lad,” Lovell said thoughtfully.

His brow was furrowed, and after a moment’s silence, he said, “The Tudor’s own Wales would be the safest place to hide a Yorkist prince, and James owns vast estates there.

If he has convinced the king of his loyalty, then all may yet be well with our Richard. ”

“But if he has changed coats, sir, as I fear he has, even if he does have the prince with him, Richard cannot be safe!”

Lovell smiled, and the expression lightened his countenance considerably.

“A more loyal Yorkist never existed than James Tyrell. Whatever he has done, my lady, you may be certain it was done to secure the safety of his royal highness.” A new thought struck him. “They cannot know that Edward is dead.”

“They had gone before he died, sir, or so I was told.”

“Are you certain that the soldiers who occupied the castle did not recognize the boy for a Plantagenet?”

“How could they? They were Welshmen and Scots, nearly all of them. Their leader is a Welshman who had never before been to the north of England or to London. He believed the boys to have been my brothers, and though he knows now that they were not, he does not suspect in the least that they might have been royal.”

Lovell nodded. “Good, then I must think, for if Tyrell does not know the lad is the sole surviving heir—”

“But is he, sir? What about King Edward’s prior betro—”

“Harry Tudor himself set aside their bastardy in order to marry Elizabeth,” Lovell said grimly, “and even before that, York’s claim was far stronger than Lancaster’s.”

“But if that is true,” Alys said, “and if Richard of York is also dead, then Elizabeth would be the true heir, would she not?”

Lovell grinned but shook his head. “We shall never see a wench on the throne, my dear. No army would support her. There was one once, to be sure—Matilda or some such, she was called—and mayhap others before her, unnatural though it seems to us today; but there will never be another. Ruling a country as important as England is no business for a lady. Neither Margaret of Anjou nor Margaret Beaufort attempted to claim the throne.”

“Well, Elizabeth does expect to rule at his side,” Alys said, “but as yet he has said naught of crowning her queen.”

“Harry prefers to rule alone. He was willing to unite with the white rose, but he does not want people thinking he needs her to retain his position. We must think what is to be done.”

“I’ll do what I can, sir, but I know not what that may be.”

“Do naught,” he said firmly. “A gently bred lady can take no part in the sort of mischief I have in mind. ’Twould be safer by far to attend to your stitching.”

“But I want to help!”

Lovell said soothingly, “Mayhap your help will be needed in future, Lady Alys, but just now, I must think of a safe way to get word to Sir James Tyrell that he holds in his keeping a life more precious than he can know.”

“Could you not just send a trusted messenger to him?”

Lovell shook his head. “No man can be trusted with such a message, lest the information fall into the Tudor’s hands. At present, Henry behaves as if those lads never existed.”

“I know, and Elizabeth believes they are dead, though she did say her mother does not believe the same.”

“You did not tell her what you knew?”

Alys shook her head.

“Good girl. ’Twas clear from the outset that Harry did not know where to find the princes, for had he known, he would have taken them into custody.

And had he believed them dead, he would have accused Dickon publicly of having murdered them before Bosworth.

He has done neither. Therefore, he knows nothing. ”

Alys said stubbornly, “If Sir James Tyrell gave up Prince Richard when he submitted, would they not keep it quiet for fear Edward might then step forward? They cannot know he is dead.”

Lovell shook his head. “Tyrell would no more have betrayed his king than I would. You cannot understand, I know, so you will do better simply to believe me. And accepting that and one other fact—that Harry Tudor would give his right eye to know where he might put his hands on the princes—there must be naught to connect any known Yorkist with Sir James. That means no messages from me. Of course, if you should simply chance to encounter him in London—How long before your return, my lady?”

Alys flushed. “I have no present intention to return.”

“What?” He glanced around the tiny sitting room. “You cannot intend to reside here!”

She nodded. “At present I do.”

“Davy did say something about your having traveled north with a company of players, but knowing you had fostered in the grandeur of Middleham, as I did myself, I could not credit his word on the matter. You are telling me he spoke the truth?”

“Aye. The Tudor did desire to wed me to a relative of Sir Thomas Stanley. I did not wish to obey, so I left London.”

Lovell’s deep-set eyes began to twinkle. “Did you now?”