Page 66 of The Rose at Twilight

In the weeks following his departure, she had several letters from him but little news of what was happening in the counties.

And in London, there were more rumors regarding the Earl of Warwick.

Notwithstanding the fact that Neddie had been paraded through the streets, many still insisted that he had escaped and meant to lead an armed invasion from Flanders, backed by his aunt, Margaret of Burgundy.

Despite the rumors, Madeline reported a relaxed atmosphere at Sheen, lasting into Lent.

And despite the king’s intent to show strength on his progress—and thus, deter strife—with a large, well-armed retinue composed mostly of gentlemen from Lancashire, the comments at court, according to Madeline, had more to do with the comeliness of the women in East Anglia than with any possibility of rebellion there.

She had even overheard one stout courtier tell another that he believed they could drink Norwich as dry as they had left York the previous Easter.

When the men had gone, Madeline visited the house at Queenshithe as soon as she could manage to do so, and informed Alys with a long-suffering sigh that the court had become entirely too restless.

“Of those left behind, nearly all are women,” she said, “and Elizabeth, who is perfectly healthy this year, chafes at being left at Sheen, although the king did assure her that he left her only because he feared for her safety.”

Alys, remembering something Nicholas had said, wondered if it were not more likely that Henry wanted to make this show of strength on his own account and not remind anyone that his position was any the stronger because of his marriage.

“What rumors are there?” she asked, not really wanting to discuss Elizabeth.

“What do they say at court now about Neddie?”

“That he is in Ireland,” Madeline said with a chuckle, “stirring up the Irish. Marry, but most people do discount the talk. They fear instead that Lincoln will lead an invasion. A grown man, they say, backed by Margaret of Burgundy, is a much more serious threat to Henry than any boy could be. Questions are asked, too, about why Henry seems so loath to crown his wife. And some even suggest that Warwick is dead but that Edward Plantagenet or his brother Richard is living now in Burgundy.”

Alys seized on the safest topic. “Lincoln is not a man to lead armies, Madeline. You have met him.”

“Aye,” Madeline said, smiling. “When he asked me to dance, he said, ‘If there be space enough, mayhap you will dance with me.’ Marry, he is a careful man, but my father said that with Richard for an uncle, it paid him to be careful. And you must know that the king has ordered beacons set up along the coast. That sounds as if he believes Lincoln is a threat.”

Alys could only agree that it did. Not long after that it became known that Henry had ordered his uncle, Jasper Tudor, and the Earl of Oxford to gather forces and prepare for invasion from both Flanders and Ireland.

And once more, the papal bull was read throughout the land, recognizing Henry’s marriage and his right to the crown, and cursing with bell, book, and candle all who did anything contrary to his right and titles.

But by then, Alys was past caring about politics, for the pangs of her labor had begun, a fortnight before they were expected.

Gwenyth and Jonet were in attendance with several maids, and Ian was sent in haste for a royal physician, whom Elizabeth, in her graciousness, had recommended to attend the lying-in.

Alys, who had never known such pain as she was feeling with each new contraction, called down every curse she could think of upon Nicholas, both for getting her into such a predicament and for leaving her to suffer it alone, but the pain was ended at last, and to her extreme astonishment, she had not one child, but two, the first a bouncing baby girl, the second a tiny boy.

She stared at the two small bundles presented by Jonet for her inspection. One was screaming lustily; the other watched her quietly through his wide blue eyes.

When the doctor, a somber, untalkative man, had gone at last, Jonet said in a tone carefully devoid of expression, “We had better send at once for a priest to christen them, mistress.”

“Oh, tomorrow or the next day will do for that,” Alys said, reaching out to touch first one tiny face and then the other.

Gwenyth said, “Do you not know what you mean to call them, my dear? You and Nicholas ought to have discussed the matter before he left. ’Tis most important.”

“Aye, but he did say he would return before their birth,” Alys said. She knew he wanted to name his son after the king, but she had not agreed, and now, looking at the small, quiet baby, she knew she could never agree to call him Henry. Firmly, she said, “I shall call them Anne and Richard.”

There was silence, but to her surprise, no one debated her choices. She looked up then, and caught an exchange of looks between Jonet and Gwenyth that sent a chill sweeping through her. “What is it? Why do you look like that?”

Both women hastened to reassure her, telling her she should sleep, that wet nurses were at hand to look after the babes.

“I want to see them both. Every inch! Unwrap them.”

After brief hesitation, they did as she asked, and she could find nothing wrong with either child.

Anne, though small, had fuzzy light hair and was pink and bright-eyed.

Her tiny limbs waved, and her cries were strong and lusty.

The little boy was not so pink, but he moved his arms and legs, and had all his fingers and toes.

She stroked one of his thin arms, pleased when he seemed to look in her direction.

“Wee Dickon,” she said to him softly, “you will grow.”

Firmly, Jonet took both babies and gave them into the care of their nurses, insisting that Alys sleep. And finally, she did, but when she awoke, she demanded to see the children at once. Once again, Jonet was unnaturally hesitant.

“They need their rest, mistress,” she said gently.

“Fetch them,” Alys commanded.

Small Anne was awake and cooing, but Dickon slept, not waking even when Alys held him and tickled his cheek.

“What is wrong with him?” she demanded.

“We do not know,” Jonet whispered. “He will not feed. He does wake from time to time, but in between, we cannot wake him.”

“Bring his cradle here, and put it beside my bed. I will keep him with me. He will thrive then. I know it!”

“Tha’ mustn’t,” Jonet said. “Let me take him now.”

But Alys refused, tears spilling down her cheeks.

And all that day she held the little boy, her heart gladdening when his eyes opened, her tears falling harder and faster when they shut again.

Gwenyth added her entreaties to those of Jonet’s, but Alys would not let them take the baby.

And when Madeline, summoned from Sheen in the hope she might soothe her, added her arguments to theirs, Alys lost her temper.

“He is my son! He will stay with me. Fetch the physician if you want to help us. I do not know why he does not come.”

Gwenyth said sympathetically, “He will come, my dear, but he has already seen the baby, and he tells us there is naught he can do if the child will not feed.”

“Then get another wet nurse, or I will suckle him myself.” But though she tried, the baby would not suck. They soaked a sugar tit in breast milk, and held it in his mouth, but even then he did not respond.

Finally, Alys sent them all away, becoming hysterical when they were reluctant to obey her. She settled against her pillows with wee Dickon nestled in her arms, fighting sleep when it would come, fearing that if she slept the baby would die.

When the door to the bedchamber opened, she snapped without looking up from her charge, “Get out. I will hear no more of your foolish prattle. Dickon will stay with me.”

“I have come to see my son, and he is not going to be called Dickon, but Henry Arthur, to please our king.”

She looked up then, sharply, and cried ecstatically, and with overwhelming relief, “Nicholas, you are here! Oh, Nicholas, they say he will die. He cannot. He must not!”

Nicholas moved to stand beside the bed, looking down at the two of them. His face was white, and she realized that the others had already told him what to expect. “Let me hold him,” he said, and his voice was tight.

“You will not take him away from me!”

“No. Move over.” He sat on the bed beside her, plumping pillows behind himself before he took the tiny, silent bundle from her. “I have sent for a priest,” he said.

“No!”

“He must be christened, sweetheart. The lass too.”

“I will not have my son named after the Tudor.”

“He is my son, too, Alys.”

A rap at the door announced the priest, and she knew then that Nicholas had been in the house longer than she had thought. She looked at him accusingly and with despair, and he put his free arm around her shoulders, drawing her close.

Anne was brought in by her nurse, and when the family and Madeline had joined them, the priest began the brief ceremony. When, with a hand poised over the little boy’s head, he asked, “Who names this child,” Rhys, standing godfather, said, “I do.”

Alys gazed bleakly at Nicholas.

He looked back at her with understanding, and the tenderness in his eyes that she had longed to see there, and said quietly, “There has been a change, Father. He is to be called Richard ap Nicholas ap Dafydd of the Welsh house of Merion.”

The priest nodded, and Rhys repeated the names without comment. When it came time to name the little girl, Madeline, who was to stand her godmother, looked at Nicholas. “Is her name to be in the Welsh fashion, too, Sir Nicholas?”

He looked at Alys and smiled. “One Welsh lad, and one English wench—is that not the way, sweetheart? I have no objection to calling her Anne. What say you to Anne Madeline?”