Page 63 of The Rose at Twilight

“But surely, sir, with her own daughter already called queen, and expecting at any time now to be properly crowned—”

“The lass will enjoy no coronation until Harry is convinced that he holds the throne by his own right. He does not want his people ever to believe he holds it by right of his wife, only that he chooses to unite his red rose with her white one.”

“But the people will clamor like they did before, until he grants her a crown of her own, and even if he does not, Prince Arthur is the queen dowager’s grandson. She would not plot against him, or against his mother.”

“I hope you are right.” His tone was somber.

He turned away. He had already distanced himself from her emotionally, and though Alys was sorry for it, she could not abandon her beliefs merely to please him.

She tried to take heart from the fact that he had said he honored her fidelity, but the sudden physical separation left her feeling bereft.

Then he turned, and the look in his eyes was different from any she had seen there before.

“I was a villain to frighten you tonight, sweetheart. I could never really hurt you. I don’t expect you to trust me so soon after my own failure to trust you, but mayhap one day you will find strength enough to believe that I will not betray you. ”

It was so quiet in the room that the sudden collapse of a log in a shower of sparks startled them both.

Alys felt tears at the back of her throat.

The only time after that first day that he had ever questioned her about the mysterious boys, he had accepted her suggestion that they might have been sons of some other Yorkist family.

She knew he was not stupid, that it was possible he had believed all along that she knew, or at least suspected, more than she had admitted.

But no more than she doubted her own loyalty could she doubt his to Henry Tudor; and, while she knew instinctively that she could trust him, that in many ways she had trusted him for some time, too much was at stake to trust him with a secret that was not hers alone to share.

She knew she could depend upon him to do all in his power to protect her, and their unborn child, from the king’s wrath, but she was just as certain that his strong loyalty to the Tudor would compel him to reveal the existence of any living prince of York who might threaten the Tudor crown.

He had not moved. She swallowed her tears and held out a hand to him. “Nicholas?”

He took her hand. His was warm and strong. He drew her close and folded her into his arms, kissing the top of her head.

She tilted her face up. “You do believe the child is yours, do you not?”

“Aye,” he said, kissing the bridge of her nose, “I do. Had I not been caught off guard by Lovell’s addressing you as Godiva, I doubt I’d ever have thought otherwise. One day I shall thank him properly for murdering Everingham. You did not tell me the villain had ripped your clothes from you.”

She blushed and would have looked away, but he held her chin. “It … it was not quite that way,” she said.

“Tell me.”

“You will be angry.”

“I have been angry before and will likely be so again,” he said, kissing the tip of her nose again. “Tell me.”

Sighing, she leaned against him. “Take me to bed, sir. I am so weary, I am nigh to dropping where I stand.”

With a wry smile, he scooped her up in his arms and carried her to the bed, helping her undress, and tucking her in.

Then, snuffing the lights and stripping off his clothes, he got in beside her and lay back against the pillows.

Slipping an arm beneath her, he drew her closer, and when she had snuggled her head into the hollow of his shoulder, he said, “Tell me now.”

She began at the beginning, but he hushed her, telling her he had heard about that and to get to the part that had come after she had sent Ian to fetch him.

“They came the next morning to search for him,” she said. She went on glibly enough until she began to explain that when Sir Lionel had ordered her from the bed so that his men might search beneath the bedclothes, she had wrapped one of the coverlets around herself. “I … I had nothing—”

“I understand, sweetheart,” he said gently. “’Tis as well that Lovell killed him, or else I should have to go now and do it myself. Everingham ripped the quilt away, did he?”

“N-no,” she said. “He was coming to do so, I think, but I dropped it—nay, flung it aside—and leapt for the poker. That gave me time, you see, for it startled him and made him pause.”

To her astonishment, he chuckled. “I’ll warrant it did. But you are too small, sweetheart, to face a swordsman, armed with no more than a poker.”

“He said the same,” she admitted. “He said, too, that I would kneel to him in the hall before them all, and swear an oath of fealty to him as if he were my king, that if I did not, he would strip me naked and thrash me until I begged to serve him, and … and that was when I saw the door move behind him. I thought it was you, Nicholas, and I had all I could do to keep from crying aloud my relief that Ian had found you so quickly. I kept my eyes on Sir Lionel, but when he leapt at me, I was not strong enough to keep hold of the poker. Then he collapsed at my feet and I looked up to see Lovell grinning at me. I had nearly flung myself into his arms before I saw it was him and not you.”

“I do owe him a debt of gratitude,” Nicholas said grimly, “but you must forgive me for asking why he came to you.”

“He had taken shelter at Wolveston before,” she said, “after Bosworth, with Roger, and he thought to do so again. He knew you had not yet taken residence, and even when he discovered I was there, he had no cause to believe …” Her voice trailed away. She knew she was plunging into deep water again.

“You need not explain. No doubt my tenants are as loyal to his cause as you are.”

“No longer, sir,” she murmured. “They are grateful to you and to your brother for setting things to rights at Wolveston. They would still be reluctant to betray me, I suppose, but you are my husband, and I warrant that if you asked them for answers, even about Lovell, you would get them.”

“Then mayhap you had better tell me the whole truth now, to disarm me in the event that someone decides to confide in me.”

“I had not considered that a possibility,” she admitted.

“There is a more dangerous one,” he said quietly. “I have accepted your reluctance to trust me, knowing that it grows out of your fealty to the cause of York, but you can scarcely expect Harry to respect that explanation if he were to discover that you are somehow linked to Lovell’s mischief.”

She was silent, staring at a point on the bed curtains where the glow from the dying fire set shadows dancing. Nicholas was entirely unpredictable when his loyalties conflicted with hers.

“I can feel by your reaction that I have hit the mark,” he said.

When she still said nothing, he went on in that same quiet voice, “I can protect you better, mi calon, if I am forewarned. I point out, for what it is worth, that I have not yet lost my temper tonight, though the temptation has been strong. I am perfectly calm now and prepared to hear the worst.”

“I believe the boy who died at Wolveston was Prince Edward Plantagenet,” she blurted, wanting the worst over quickly. She felt immediate tension in his body. “I am not certain, Nicholas, but I did think it might be he, and when I told Lovell—”

“You told him! When? At Doncaster?”

“Aye, I did not go there for that purpose,” she said, “but when Davy Hawkins said he was near, I sent Davy to fetch him so that I could tell him what I’d seen and ask him what he knew.

He admitted Richard had sent both boys north, like Elizabeth, only not to Yorkshire, where they would have been sought by men who wanted to make trouble for him.

My father was loyal to York, and not a combatant.

Lovell said Father agreed to take the boys only if Richard would send me to live away from the court, to protect me, so that I might never be thought part of any plan. ”

“Then Edward Plantagenet is dead,” Nicholas said. “What of the younger one, Prince Richard of York?”

“I do not know for certain,” she said. “You told me someone had taken him away—for fostering, you said.”

“Do you know who that was?” he asked, very casually.

“I think I do, but I doubt I would be wise to tell you.”

She waited for the explosion, but it did not come. Instead he said, in that same quiet, murmuring tone, “’Tis true, you would not. I am still loyal to my king.”

“And I, to mine.” She sighed. “I doubt that Richard of York still lives, sir. I had doubts before, and since summer I have been certain he must be dead.”

“What happened then to convince you?”

“The man who most likely took him from Wolveston submitted to Henry Tudor and received a general pardon,” she said, choosing her words carefully, “but he sued for a second one before a month was out. One has to assume he must have done something perfectly dreadful in the meantime. I think he killed the prince.”

Nicholas sat up, grabbing her and lifting her to peer intently into her face. “Tyrell? You believe Tyrell had him!”

Her gasp gave her away, and she knew it, but she did her best to recover, saying, “I did not mention any such name.”

“His pardons were much talked of, madam, but he has sworn fealty to Henry Tudor, and has served him well in Glamorgan.” He stopped.

“By our Lady,” he said, staring at her, “that was why you asked about Glamorgan when we were traveling to Merion. Did you think to visit the man and ask him flat out where Richard was? Well, did you?” he demanded, giving her a shake.

Even in the dim glow from the hearth, he must have seen the answer in her expression, for he released her with exaggerated care and leaned back against his pillows, shutting his eyes as though he feared what he might do if he continued to look at her.