Page 7 of The Rose at Twilight

A HIGH, CURTAINED BED stood against the right-hand wall of the room, and a fire burned brightly on the hearth opposite.

At first there appeared to be no one inside other than the occupant of the bed, but then a rustling sound drew Alys’s attention to the inglenook beyond the hearth, and she saw a scrawny, elderly woman on a floor cushion, her knees hunched to her chin, dozing.

Alys did not recognize her but decided she looked harmless.

Alys entered the room and shut the door behind her.

The old crone opened her eyes and lifted her head but showed no sign of alarm until Alys moved toward the bed. Then she said in a high-pitched, croaking voice, “Dinna uncover ’im, m’lady. He mun be kept full covered.”

“You know me?”

“Aye, tha’ dost be ahr young Lady Alys come home again.”

“And you?”

The old woman straightened a little but made no attempt to stand up. “Goody Spurrig, m’lady, from over t’ Browson village. I be the herb wooman. Nane other’d bide wi’ the auld lord.”

“I thought there was a servant with him.”

“Gone.”

Alys had pulled back the bed curtains, and although she glanced over her shoulder at the blunt response, she said nothing before turning back to gaze for a long moment at the man who had awed her so in her childhood.

All that was visible of Lord Wolveston now was his face, glistening with sweat but drawn and gray, even in the little light provided by the fire.

“Will he live?” she asked the herb woman. There was silence, so she turned.

The woman shook her head.

“May I speak with him?”

“Aye, gin tha’ canst wake him.”

Spying several wax tapers on a table near the hearth, Alys shrugged off her cloak, letting it fall to the floor, then moved to light a candle at the fire.

Going back to the bed, she held the taper so it would light his face but not drip wax on him or set the curtains ablaze.

“Father,” she said urgently. “Father, my lord, it is Alys. Please, sir, you must wake up.”

His eyelids flickered, then lifted, revealing dull gray eyes that shifted rapidly back and forth before focusing at last on her face.

“Father? It is Alys, my lord. I have come home.”

“Alys?” The voice was no more than a rasping croak. The frail body stirred beneath the heavy blankets. “Bless thee, child. I sent for thee, did I not?”

“Aye,” she said. Then, glancing over her shoulder once more, she said, “Leave us, dame. Tell no one that I am here. Do you swear?”

“Aye,” muttered the crone, getting stiffly to her feet. “B’ain’t nane left t’ tell.”

“Go.”

She shuffled stiffly to the door, opened it, and went out. Alys waited until the latch had clicked into place before turning back to the figure in the bed. “My lord, pray tell me what has happened here.”

“Dead, all dead.” His eyes widened, the pupils flicking wildly, first right, then left.

“Soldiers … sickness … mustn’t stay. Safe, Alys is safe.

Saw to that. Get the lads, get them safe …

to Alys … no, to Tyrell. Alys at Drufield.

Saw to that. Good, my liege. Loyalty binds—” He broke off, gasping, then repeated clearly, “Dead, all dead.”

“Father, please, look at me,” she said with a hint of impatience in her voice.

“It is Alys, my lord, and I am here, not at Drufield. I am to go to London, sir. The soldiers you speak of are the Tudor’s men.

I would not have been let to stay at Drufield even if I were still there and had wanted to do so. ”

“Find Roger. Must find Roger.” His eyes focused on her again. “Where is Roger, wench? Send him to me at once.”

“I know not where he is, sir. I have had no word of him or of his man, Davy Hawkins. Indeed, I had hoped that you would know. We were told that Lincoln and Viscount Lovell had been killed, so Roger and Davy, too, may be dead.”

He stirred restlessly. “Not dead. Message. Keep safe.”

She had barely been able to hear his words. “You had a message, you say? What was it, sir? Who must be kept safe?”

He still looked at her, but now she thought his look was full of cunning. “Brothers, Alys. Thou hast brothers again.”

“Aye,” she retorted, glancing swiftly over her shoulder at the closed door.

“So I have been told. My brother Robert died less than two days ago, they tell me, and they say that my brother Paul left the castle a fortnight past. How can that be, sir, when both Robert and Paul died of the plague eight winters ago?”

“Dead, all dead.” His eyelids fluttered and the eyes behind them drifted out of focus.

“Father,” she urged, “you cannot sleep yet, sir. What do you know of Roger? Who was the lad they called Robert? Who is Paul? Is there someone hiding here at Wolveston now?” The possibilities stirred by that last thought were frightening. “Who must be kept safe, sir?”

“Safe?” The pale eyelids opened wide again.

His body moved, the body she remembered as being gigantic and fearsomely powerful, but which now was frail and helpless beneath the great pile of blankets.

“Keep Alys safe,” he murmured, “at all cost.” He paused as though he were listening, his eyes narrowed, stern.

Then he said quickly, “Agreed, agreed, but my daughter must be kept safe, out of it all. Send Tyrell … no, not Tyrell, he is known, too well known. I’ll not see him, your grace.

’Tisn’t safe. Safe, safe … Alys … all must be safe. ”

The last words came in a singsong rhythm.

She knew that he was delirious and wondered if he had said anything at all to the purpose.

He was talking to someone else, not to her, and his words made no sense.

“Father, who are these brothers of mine—false Robert, false Paul? Who are they? Of what must I beware? Please, you must tell me. I go to London, to the enemy. Must I go in fear? Help me, Father!”

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” muttered the figure in the bed. “Have mercy upon this miserable sinner.” His eyes were closed now, his lips barely moving with the last words.

“Father, look at me,” Alys begged desperately. She dared not touch him; she did not wish to die. Yet she wanted to shake him. She could see that the old herb woman had been right. He was dying. Time was fleeting. “Speak to me! Tell me!”

His eyelids lifted and his eyes focused again, briefly but sharply. “Go now,” he murmured much more clearly than before. “Thou must not take the sickness. But go warily, lass, lest thou drawest the Tudor wrath unto thyself.” His eyes closed.

“Father! No, that is not enough. Tell me!” But it was no use. Though he still breathed raggedly, the muscles in his face had slackened. There would be no waking him again.

Alys wondered if the old woman knew anything that might help her, but dismissed the notion when she recalled that the crone had come from a nearby village. If there were secrets here, as it seemed there must be, Goody Spurrig was not party to them.

Suddenly chilled despite the heat in the room, she moved to the fire, snuffing the candle and setting it down on the hearth, then rubbing her hands together, trying to think.

Absently noting the caked, drying mud on her skirt, she drew a fold up and flicked at bits of dirt with a fingernail while she pondered, and after a time she sat down by the hearth and rubbed at the muddy patches more carefully, still trying to focus her thoughts.

If someone were in hiding at Wolveston Hazard, how safe could he or they be?

There were soldiers everywhere, looking for stragglers from the Yorkist army.

Ought she to search the castle? What if she found someone?

What would she do? The servants were all gone, she remembered.

Even the manservant who had cared for her father.

The crone had said he was gone. Perhaps he had died; perhaps not.

But who would feed the ones in hiding if such there were? Ought she not to look?

The fire was dying. Looking around, she saw a small pile of logs beneath the window, which she had not seen before because the bed hid them from view from the doorway.

She got to her feet and carried two to the fire, putting them on carefully so as not to send sparks flying; and only when she had finished did she realize something was missing from the room.

She had been thinking, then moving about, and for a moment she could not imagine what she missed. Then she recognized the silence.

His harsh breathing had provided a background for her thoughts. She had paid no heed to it, but it had been there. Now it was not.

Fearfully she got to her feet again and moved toward the bed.

His lips were parted, but there was no movement, no sound.

She reached to touch him, then snatched her hand back when a frisson of fear shot through her body.

Backing away, she felt a surge of panic, overwhelming, terrifying panic; and whirling, she ran to the door only to stop with her hand on the latch.

Frozen, she fought to regain control over her emotions, to think.

Remembering that there might be men hidden in the castle, she knew she dared not give any alarm that would bring soldiers running.

For that matter, she dared not raise any alarm at all, not because of the men who might be hiding, but for her own sake.

What Sir Nicholas would do if he discovered that she had slipped away to be at her father’s deathbed did not bear contemplation.