Page 36 of The Rose at Twilight

Grinning in response to chuckles from the audience, he laid a finger aside of his nose and went on in the same tone,

“Pit pat, alas-alack,

Little Alys has come back.

Will she, nill she, ring-a-ling,

Bend Yorkist knee to Tudor king?”

Alys, feeling telltale warmth in her cheeks, did her best to ignore both him and chuckles she heard, and sank into a deep curtsy.

When the fool laughed again, she looked up to meet the king’s gaze.

Not daring to appear to challenge him by continuing to stare boldly into his eyes, she looked down again.

The fool recited then, in his singsong voice,

“Little Robin Redbreast

Sat upon a pole,

Niddle, noddle

Went his head,

And poop went his hole.”

The shouts of laughter from the assemblage broke off as if someone had slashed them with a knife, and Alys, blushing deeply, looked up again to see that Henry had shifted his gaze to the fool.

The king said not one word, just looked at him, but with bells tinkling madly, the fool flung himself at the royal feet.

“Have mercy upon poor Tom Blakall, my master! His tongue hath run away with his brains!”

“Begone from our sight, Tom Blakall; thy words displease us,” the king said quietly.

When the fool, not daring to speak again, had fled, Henry said, “Rise, Lady Alys. The antics of Tom Blakall do frequently amuse us, but he has offended our taste by failing to heed your recent loss. We have beseeched our Lord to look mercifully upon you in your bereavement.”

“You have my thanks, your noble highness,” Alys murmured, rising obediently.

She was grateful that he had sent the fool away, but her gratitude was overridden by an undutiful wish that Henry might look as mercifully upon her as he had beseeched the Lord to do, and an even stronger wish that he had chosen to say whatever it was he meant to say to her in a more private moment.

He looked at her thoughtfully for a long moment before he said, “You did not choose to wed our cousin Stanley?”

Alys flushed. “I crave your pardon, sir. I behaved badly.”

“In good sooth, ’tis true. But circumstances having altered, it is no longer our wish to see you wedded to him. To see the Wolveston estates added to the Stanley coffers would not suit us. Your future lies otherwhere, Lady Alys, and we trust you will not see fit this time to defy our command.”

“N-no, sir,” she replied, wondering why it was that her skin was prickling when the man had made her no threat, had not even seemed especially displeased with her.

His very calm was disturbing to one who had known the Plantagenet rages of King Edward, the generally milder but no less ominous displeasure of his brother Richard, and the equally disturbing tempers of Sir Nicholas Merion.

There seemed to be no passion in Henry, only a subtle intensity of manner that baffled Alys, and frightened her.

She believed him to be a ruthless man who permitted himself neither emotion nor illusions.

He stood up, and Alys stepped involuntarily backward, treading upon her own skirt, but she managed not to fall.

The king smiled. His smile was singularly attractive, bringing animation to his aquiline features, and lighting his face.

A twinkle began to dance in his eyes. For the first time he looked amiable, even cheerful, and Alys began to understand how it was that men had chosen to follow him.

He looked past her for a brief moment before his gaze came to rest upon her again.

Elizabeth stood now, too, smiling at someone behind Alys, and Alys wished she had the nerve to turn and look.

“Lady Alys,” Henry said, “there is one not unknown to you who deserves our grace and favor.”

Alys’s heart skipped a thump. Her breath caught somewhere between her breast and her throat.

Though she was aware of movement and speculative murmuring from the company around her, she dared look only at the royal feet on the carpeted dais.

She strove to breathe slowly, evenly, as Anne had taught her to do.

The king’s voice came again, this time as though he spoke through a long tunnel, from far away. “Sir Nicholas of the Welsh house of Merion, step forward.”

Alys swayed and would have fallen, were it not for a firm hand clapped beneath her elbow. For a moment, she thought the hand belonged to Sir Nicholas, until Lady Emlyn’s sharp voice sounded in her right ear.

“Collect yourself, girl! Would you disgrace yourself before the entire court?”

Alys drew herself up but refused to turn to see if Sir Nicholas had obeyed the royal command. Looking instead at the king, she saw that he was remarkably pleased with himself.

Sir Nicholas made his bow beside her.

Henry grinned at him. “We are pleased to commend our ward to you as a suitable bride, sir. What say you?”

Sir Nicholas was silent for so long that Alys, suddenly indignant, turned to glare at him.

He ignored her, but she recognized the glint of humor in his eyes when he replied to the king, “I suspect you do me no great favor, my liege. She has already led me a dance the length and breadth of all England.”

Alys heard a gasp from somewhere behind her and feared that Sir Nicholas had overstepped himself, but a deepening of the royal twinkle proved that he knew his master well.

Henry said, “’Tis good she has given you opportunity to see the English countryside, sir, and marriage to her will benefit you in other ways as well. ’Tis a sadness now that we sent Tom Blakall from our presence, else he might enumerate them for us.”

Chuckles could be heard from the company, and Alys felt as if her cheeks were on fire. She dared not look at anyone.

Sir Nicholas said evenly, “’Tis to be hoped those benefits will outweigh the heavy penalties, my liege.”

“I warrant you will know how to master the wench,” Henry said bluntly, adding in a louder, more formal tone, “There being no concern in this instance with consanguinity, but dispensation being required to allow you both to marry outside your parish, it is our decision that you shall be wed by special license. Our royal chaplain will therefore perform the betrothal service before we sup, and the marriage can take place on Simnel Sunday.”

Less than a fortnight, Alys realized, her thoughts whirling and her knees feeling suddenly too weak to support her.

Mid-Lent or Simnel Sunday—named for the little cakes of light grain, or simnel, that were customarily eaten that day—was usually a welcome date in the midst of the long, harsh Lenten fast; but now she doubted she would look forward to the feasting as much as she usually did.

Under cover of the surge of conversation that arose while the chaplain was being hastened forward, she turned to Sir Nicholas and muttered, “You will rue this day, sir.”

Leaning close to her, he retorted, “I had better not, mi geneth. You have this betrothal and little else to thank for the fact that I have not yet apprised his sovereign grace of your secret parley in the north with the outlaw Lovell.”

Alys stared at him in shock. It had never occurred to her that, even if he had guessed the truth, he might contemplate such a thing. He smiled sweetly back at her and took her hand in his.

The chaplain took his place before them.