Page 9 of The Rose at Twilight

Horror engulfed her mind, making her dizzy, and with the first crack of the whip she cried out and tried once again to pull away, but Sir Nicholas would not allow her to do so.

When she shut her eyes at the second stroke, swaying against him, he muttered curtly, “You may shut out the sight, wench, but if you try to cover your ears, I’ll order your wrists tied behind you.

It disappoints me to find you such a coward that you cannot look upon the result of your own misdeed. ”

Alys winced at his tone, then winced again when young MacDougal screamed at the third stroke of the whip, but Sir Nicholas’s words echoed in her head, and she could not ignore them.

Her misdeed, he had called it. The young Scotsman was being cruelly punished because of her, his dreadful suffering the direct result of her own disobedience.

She could not regret her visit to the castle.

That was something she had had to do. But she could and did regret this.

Never before had her actions resulted in such dire consequence to someone else.

Because the lad had trusted her to remain where she was, because he had thought it unnecessary to watch the back of her tent as well as the front, he was suffering untold pain.

The fault was her own, just as Sir Nicholas had said it was.

She could not look, could not bear to watch the whip slashing against Ian’s bare back.

But she would not attempt to stop her ears.

She deserved to hear his screams. In faith, she deserved more than that, and when she remembered that Sir Nicholas had said a sore arm was little compensation for what she had done, she wondered if he would extract greater payment from her when Ian’s awful punishment was done.

The screaming stopped at last, and she opened her eyes in time to see Sir Nicholas sign to the man with the whip to stop the punishment.

Ian hung by his wrists, limp, having passed out from the pain.

For a moment Alys was afraid Sir Nicholas was only waiting for him to regain consciousness before ordering the punishment continued, but the two men moved forward and the smaller one drew his dagger from its sheath and cut the lad down.

As she turned away with Sir Nicholas, she saw them lifting Ian gently between them.

His back was marked with stripes, clearly visible even by firelight, and she saw that some were bleeding.

She said nothing until they reached her tent, but then she turned to face him, drawing on courage she had not known she possessed. “Do you intend to punish me, too, Sir Nicholas?”

He was silent long enough to stir the horrors again before he said quietly, “By the rood, I ought to do so. You endangered your own life by your foolish actions, and thus, since I am responsible to the king for your well-being, you endangered my future and that of my men. But I have no right, for all that, to punish you, being neither father, brother, nor true guardian.” He paused before adding very gently, “In future, mistress, I do advise you to take more caution.”

He would have turned away then, but repressing the chill stirred by his words, she stopped him. “You will bury them all—my family—in the morning before we leave here?”

He gave her another steady look. “Do you think us barbarians, that you must ask such a question?”

“No, sir, but I would look upon their faces before they are set to rest. In faith, I must.”

“As God is my witness, you will not. It is not safe.”

“By heaven, sir, I have stood by my father’s bed! If I am to contract the disease, I will do so whether I look upon my mother and brother, or do not.”

“Nonetheless …”

“You do not understand,” she said desperately. “Their souls will not rest if I do not speak a proper farewell!”

His eyes narrowed. “Not rest? What mean you by this?”

Thinking swiftly, she said, “’Tis custom hereabouts. If the dead are not bade proper farewell by at least one of their close kin, they will walk. No one will step near Wolveston then, for fear of the haunts. You must allow me to do this, Sir Nicholas.”

He hesitated, then pushed aside the tent flap and motioned to her to precede him inside. Jonet, sitting on her pallet, scrambled to her feet and stepped forward.

“My lady, you are safe then! I knew not what to think, what with all the commotion.”

Merion answered, “She is safe enough. Tell me, Mistress Hawkins, is it true that the people hereabouts will believe the castle haunted if certain customs are not observed?”

Alys held her breath, but she need not have worried.

“Aye, sir,” Jonet replied wide-eyed. “There must be a proper burial service, with a priest and all, and a member of the family to bid the dead a proper farewell beforehand.”

He nodded. “I will see to it then.”

A moment later he was gone, and Alys rushed into Jonet’s arms. “I was afraid you would stare at him in wonder or deny the nonsense outright,” she said. “You said just the right thing.”

“Aye, I was listening. Only ran back right before he opened the flap, and feared he’d see I was nigh out of breath from the terror of being caught.” She held Alys away from her. “What was your purpose, mistress? ’Tis a dangerous thing you mean to do.”

Alys nodded. It would be dangerous all right, and not only because she might be exposing herself again to the dreaded sickness. If Sir Nicholas discovered she had lied to him, he might not be as forbearing as he had been tonight. She was trusting Fate, which was never a wise course to follow.

“I have to see my brother Robert,” she said now.

“Then his lordship did tell you naught.”

“He was delirious. He said much but little that made sense. He said, I think, that either Lincoln or Viscount Lovell still lives, and maybe Davy, or even Roger. ’Tis possible, in fact, that someone is hiding right there in the castle.”

“Then the sooner we be gone from here, the better,” Jonet said practically, helping her off with the heavy cloak and then moving to deal with belt, shoes, and laces.

Alys realized she was right. The fugitives, if indeed there were any, would be all the safer for their departure with the soldiers. “Sir Nicholas said we would leave directly after the burials,” she said.

Some moments later, tucked beneath her furs, she tried to relive in her mind the events of the night, but her imagination failed her.

Her head ached, and she felt tired enough to sleep for a week.

When she did sleep, her slumber was troubled and she felt hot under the furs, throwing half of them off by morning.

Jonet woke her early, exclaiming over her flushed complexion and the dark circles beneath her eyes, but Alys ordered her to cease her fretting.

“You only make my head ache worse,” she snapped.

“Leave be. We will be gone soon, and I shall sleep better tonight, and better than ever when we reach London.”

The mist was gone when they emerged from the tent, and the sun shone brightly upon the landscape, purple and green now with heather and bracken.

Wooded areas to the south, outskirts of the vast, legendary Sherwood Forest, made darker splashes of green, and although Alys had never traveled that way, she knew that beyond the forest lay Newark and Nottingham Castle, the latter long a stronghold of the Plantagenets but probably now, like the rest, in the Tudor’s hands.

Nearby to the east flowed the river Trent, wide, deep, and blue, hurrying north to join the Humber.

Beyond sprawled the fens and marshlands of Lincolnshire, but the sight, though she once had loved it, held no interest today.

Breakfast was only dried meat and ale, for there was no more bread, but she didn’t care. The thought of food was an unwelcome one. No doubt, she thought, her stomach still writhed at the evil she had brought upon young Ian the night before.

Thinking of him now, she gathered both her strength and her courage and went to find Sir Nicholas. “Where is Ian MacDougal?”

“In the tent I shared,” he replied briefly. “He will remain there until we are ready to strike camp.”

“Is he a prisoner?”

“No, but he is too stiff to be useful. He is still in pain, as you might guess.” He peered suddenly into her eyes and frowned. “Are you well, my lady? You do not look so.”

“I am well enough,” she retorted, conscious again of her aching head and her fatigue. “Have you sought out a priest?”

“Aye, there are two monks from the priory at Bawtry who are caring for the sick in nearby villages. One has agreed to speak the service for the dead. He will be along soon.”

“I want to see Ian MacDougal first.”

Sir Nicholas nodded. “As you wish. Tom will take you.” He shouted for his squire.

After one look at Ian, a wiry lad with russet-colored hair, who lay on his stomach with his bare back still exposed for the simple reason that he could not bear anything to touch it, Alys sent for Jonet.

“Fetch your herbal salve,” she commanded.

Then, to Ian, she said, “It will soothe the pain and make you better.”

He managed a wan smile. “I niver thought tae see the day when I’d bid a bonny wooman tae keep her hands from me, but i’ faith, I canna bear it. Ye musna touch me, mistress.”

But when Jonet returned, Alys ordered her and Tom to hold Ian while she smoothed the salve directly onto his wounds with her own hands.

Though she was as gentle as she knew how to be, she knew how much she hurt him, and so heavy was her guilt that every gasp and groan sent a slice of pain through her own body.

“I am sorry, Ian,” she whispered with tears in her eyes. “’Twas my fault. I am as sorry as I can be.”

He protested weakly, and although she did not know whether his protest was at her words or at her touch, she did not stop until his wounds were covered with the aromatic salve.

“He can wear a shirt now,” she said to Tom. “Not armor or a jacket, but the day promises to be warm, and by nightfall he will be better able to endure the weight of heavier material.”

Tom, who had watched her every move with undisguised curiosity, went at once to fetch a shirt. When he returned, Alys stood to leave. “Sleep, Ian, if you can, till it is time to go. Riding will be unbearable if you are still exhausted.”

“Aye, mistress,” he murmured. “I thank you.”

She left, discovering when she emerged from the tent that preparations had begun for the burial of her family.

Three rough coffins were being carried from the castle to the graveyard on a nearby rise, above the river. She hurried to find Sir Nicholas, cursing the headache that still haunted her, wishing for more energy, knowing the day would be a long one.

The wood coffins had been placed next to three hastily dug holes in the muddy ground. A brown-robed monk stepped up to the first of them, making the sign of the cross above it. Sir Nicholas, beside him, motioned to Alys to come forward.

“I do not approve of this,” he said, “but the priest agrees that you ought to look upon your dead.”

“’Tis the right of the living,” murmured the monk.

“Aye, and it may be her death as well,” Sir Nicholas retorted. “Men who die of the plague are buried rapidly, often without ceremony, in order to protect the living.”

“This sickness is not the plague,” the monk reminded him, “and even those who die of plague have the right to a proper burial, my son.”

“I have agreed.” Merion signed to one of his men. “Open her ladyship’s coffin.”

Alys stepped forward, not really wanting to look upon her mother’s face, but knowing she must if she was to see the boy who was said to be her brother.

When the coffin lid was raised, the figure that was revealed meant little to her.

She had scarcely known her mother, and she was able to look at her face with little emotion.

Alys had brought her rosary, and silently she prayed, made the sign of the cross, and stepped back.

The second coffin was opened. She stepped forward and stared down in amazement.

To the best of her knowledge she had never seen the boy before, but his blond good looks were more familiar to her than her mother’s face had been.

She had seen King Edward more than once, and she knew Neddie, who was the son of Edward’s second brother, the late Duke of Clarence.

If this boy was not as much a Plantagenet as either of them …

Her thoughts froze her in place. When she realized who the boy might be, she told herself she was mad to think such a thing, but the thoughts that tumbled over themselves, racing through her mind, made her dizzy.

Conscious of Sir Nicholas standing beside her, she knew that she must do nothing to arouse his suspicions.

She must click her beads and move her lips, no matter that her muscles refused to obey her.

Tears spilled from her eyes, her headache raged, her skin felt as though it were aflame, and her breath came in short, ragged gasps.

Her face felt numb, her hands and feet, too.

One moment they burned, the next they tingled with pins and needles.

When she collapsed, Sir Nicholas caught her in his arms.