Page 59 of The Rose at Twilight

“At first,” Nicholas said, “he saw only that it would be a good match, but now I think ’tis the lass he wants. I warned him that she was accustomed to be much admired and flattered, and that she paid little heed to any amongst her many admirers.”

“But he makes no effort to please her. He cannot want her.”

“As to that,” he said, twinkling at her, “you have never watched him coax a wild horse to take sugar from his hand. He stands and waits until the animal becomes so curious it cannot stay away from him. Now, Hugh tells me the wench was a rare handful for him on the road to London, and I can tell you she has not been in good humor there, either. Her father has presented a string of suitors to her, all willing to praise her beauty and woo her dowry, but she will have none of them.”

“She insists she means never to marry any man,” Alys said.

“Aye, and my answer to that is ‘baldarddws.’ Her father is a doting fool. Had he sense, he would thrash obedience into her as any other man would, but he does not. He says only that she is a wench with a mind of her own.” He sighed.

“Gwilym says, and in truth, I agree, though you will not, that such indulgence has done her little good. She will be the better for a husband’s stronger hand; and there will be a husband, lass, one day.

” Then turning before she could argue the point he shouted to Hugh, “The lads are ready to ride. Have you said your farewells?”

“Aye,” Hugh shouted back with a grin, “and would have got my face slapped, could she but have reached it. The wee minikin’s got a right limber tongue though. Called me a prick-eared maggot-pate and said I was bound for the devil. What a woman!”

Chuckling, Nicholas turned back to Alys, gave her a hug, and then with one last kiss, he was mounted and gone.

He had promised to write, and he did so, but though she looked forward to his letters, they continued to disappoint her, for not one included an invitation to join him or to return to the court.

Madeline’s letters, though haphazardly written and carelessly blotted, were far more satisfying. When she wrote to share the court’s delight after Elizabeth was safely delivered of her son in September, Alys felt as though she and Jonet might almost have been there in attendance with her.

“Lady Margaret, thinking the queen too inexperienced to handle such matters,” Madeline wrote from Winchester, “did devise all the plans for the lying-in, the furnishing of her grace’s chamber, the cradle, the christening, even for the nursing of the prince.

It was she, not the king, who decided the baby should be born here at the legendary home of King Arthur; and Alys, they have christened the baby Arthur!

The Earl of Oxford was to stand godfather, and we waited three hours in the cathedral for him to arrive, but at last the service began without him.

Torches were lighted, the grand procession to the high altar was made, and two hymns were sung before Oxford galloped in like a destrier blown, right into the midst of it, in time to see the dowager queen lay the baby on the altar for the long ceremony.

Elizabeth lies abed still, and there was another magnificent candlelit procession to take him home to her again.

He is a fine laddie, Alys, and makes me yearn for one of my own.

We go downriver to Greenwich soon, so do beg Sir Nicholas to permit you to come to us.

I am become maudlin, for life at court is tiresome without you. ”

Alys found herself wishing that Nicholas, not Madeline, had written the last line.

Thinking about Greenwich with its green parks and open vistas across the Thames, she could almost hear the lapping of the water against the banks and the cries of the gulls overhead.

But Nicholas never wrote such lines to her, nor did he grant permission.

Her moods soon became as unpredictable as Elizabeth’s had been, and her health began to deteriorate.

At first she thought she was truly ill, once even fearing a recurrence of the sweat, but then, with Jonet’s help, the reason for her capricious bouts of sickness became clear.

Both elated and alarmed, she wanted one moment to tell the world and the next to tell no one, for she was certain that if Nicholas learned of her delicate condition, he would never allow her to travel to London.

In point of fact, she was a trifle concerned herself about the journey, but by the time he did grant his permission, in December, she was feeling perfectly stout, and thoroughly delighted with her interesting condition.

Gwilym brought her the news, saying in his blunt way, “I’ve had a letter from Nick. We’re to join the court for Christmas.”

“At last!” she exclaimed. “But where are they now? When Madeline last wrote, they had removed to Sheen again.”

“Westminster be where we’re headed,” Gwilym said, “and our family will be there, as well. Nicholas has hired a house in London for them. But here, the lad brought you a letter, too. We can be ready to depart in three days’ time, I’m thinking.”

She snatched at the letter he held out, but even before she opened it, her heart began to sing.

They were returning to court at last, a fact confirmed in the first line of Nicholas’s brief letter.

The rest was only a carefully worded warning that she behave herself, a warning upon which she felt no necessity to dwell.

She rushed to take the news to Jonet and to begin preparing for the journey, hoping the weather, which had been threatening rain for a week, would remain dry enough to travel.

It did not rain, and Sir Nicholas, riding from Sheen, met their party at Waltham, where they put up for the night.

Though the order at Waltham Abbey was much poorer than their brothers at Burton, they provided excellent accommodations for travelers, and lay brothers to look after them.

Nicholas was in a festive mood, and he snatched Alys up in his arms in the guest hall and gave her a great, smacking kiss, his eyes alight with laughter and delight at seeing her again.

His mood was contagious, and she grinned at him. “Put me down, sir. You will shock the good brothers, should any so far forget himself as to peep out at us from the cloister.”

He chuckled, setting her on her feet. “You have become demure then, madam. Why, I recall, not so long since—”

“Hush,” she said, putting a finger to his lips. “I am determined not to quarrel with you, but if you are to cast up all my past mistakes for the world to mock, I shall not be held responsible for my actions.”

He squeezed her hand, then turned to greet his brother, clapping him on the shoulder and demanding to know if he had left the estate in good hands.

“I was torn,” he said with a smile, “between my need for you there, and my lady wife’s requirements on the road.

I hope she has not led you a wicked dance, Gwilym. ”

“The trip was uneventful,” Gwilym replied with a smile.

Alys had seen his mood improve almost hourly on the road, as had Jonet’s for once, though Jonet’s comments upon her palfrey’s paces did not bear repeating.

Gwilym said, “No doubt, Nick, we have you to thank as much as anyone for the peaceful journey we had. The land is quiet for once.”

“Thank the weather,” Nicholas said. “There has been little snow, but the sky threatens a storm every day. There is thunder brewing even now. I hope we can get safe to Greenwich tomorrow without being struck by lightning. It can tear at the land all it wants once we are safe within the castle walls.”

“We’ve little enough distance to cover,” Gwilym said, adding with a brisk nod when Hugh entered the hall, “Ah, man, ’tis good to see you.” He held out his hand, and Alys watched it disappear into Hugh’s great paw, conscious of Jonet stiffening beside her.

Hugh glanced at both women and said cheerfully to Gwilym, “I see you managed to bring our meistr’s lady safe to us, and that lovely but peevish butterbox of a maid of hers as well.”

“Peevish butterbox, is it now?” Jonet muttered indignantly.

“The blathering, totty-headed gowk!” Making a small, dignified curtsy, she said in a louder but much more polite tone, “How delightful to see you again, Master Gower, and to hear more of your pretty compliments. My lady was just saying we had naught to entertain us here, and here you are to put her to the lie.”

Hugh bowed deep from the waist, saying, “Now, now, my sweet igniferent bawd, much though it goes against the hair with me to find fault with so toothsome a wench as thyself, thou must not call thy mistress a liar. ’Tis downright disrespectful.”

“Igniferent bawd! Disrespectful!” She stared at him in amazement. “Why, I’ve never heard the like. How dare thee rebuke me in such terms, tha’ great clubfisted clenchpoop!”

“You miss the cushion there, sweet cosset. I am no clown but the truest penny going, albeit a trifle woman-tired.”

“Daffish dogbolt,” Jonet said provocatively.

“Popping doxy,” he retorted.

“Dizzard!”

“Giglet!”

“Giglet? Tha’ wouldst name me doxy and giglet? Why, tha’ pesterous, gorebellied lobcock—”

“Gorebellied?” Hugh cried, stung on the raw at last. “By God’s sanity, lass, I am not fat, just well favored.

It fair topsy-turns my brain to hear thee say such a thing of me.

” In an aside to the other two men, he said, “She’s a filly as bites on the bridle now and again, but you watch.

I shall soon have her as tame as her own palfrey, and eating out of my hand. ”

“Tha’ wilt not, tha’ cankerish, cocksure, pigeon-livered hoddypeke,” Jonet snapped. “Tha’ hast nerve enough, and size, but nowt save a wee pea for a brain, and—”