At His Command-Historical Romance Version (26 page)

Suddenly he realized that he’d been so focused on their conversation he hadn’t thought how they must appear to the other diners. He must look as though he was about to strangle Belinda or kiss her. With her head lolling back, her full breasts were almost in his face. Neither they, nor she, held temptation for him.

He doubted any woman ever would again.

Amice walked into her cousin’s new brick castle at Tattershall, cheeks icy from her brisk walk. Lord Cromwell sat by the huge fireplace in the parlor. He looked older than she’d remembered. His light brown hair had thinned.

“Hello, Cuzralph!” Her childhood nickname for him used to make her smile.

“Amice. Please tell me what is bothering you. You’ve not smiled since you arrived.”

“Am I that easy to read?”

He rose and took her hands. “I see sadness. Uncertainty, which I don’t recall you having even as a girl. And something else I can’t quite define, as though you’ve given up. Why?”

“Am I so different from other women, to want things I do not, cannot have?”

“Ah, there it is. What don’t you have that you want?” He sat in one of the chairs by the hearth and indicated the other.

Amice felt tears gathering as she sank into the chair embroidered with tiny yellow flowers. Could she tell Cromwell what she’d told no one else? Her cousin had done so much for her, even risking his standing with the queen to free her from the Tower.

She poured a cup of cider from a pitcher on a carved table. How could she explain? Her cousin fully supported Henry, like Nicholas.

Nicholas. Amice pushed his name and image out of her mind. If he’d known she was leaving court, he obviously didn’t care, for he hadn’t even said farewell. She hadn’t gone to him, for nothing had changed.

Even if she agreed to never lift a finger for York again, what would she get in return? Nicholas’s continued friendship, yes. Friendship alone wasn’t enough to persuade her to change her mind. But if he could have, would have offered marriage…would that be sufficient? Was spending your life with the man you loved more important than your duty?

Apprehension clung to her like dust.

She wanted Nicholas to love her, but wouldn’t settle for less than the security of marriage. She’d been a fool to think whatever time they could snatch would be enough. She yearned to wake up next to him every day, be able to walk proudly about court, Castle Rising, or anywhere with Nicholas at her side, as her husband. Not her secret lover.

Unfortunately, now that she knew what love was, she could never accept any other man as her husband. If what she now desired made her greedy, so be it. She didn’t want to lower her eyes each time Nicholas was in the room for fear someone would read the affection in them. The religious and public confirmation of their feelings was important.

Her cousin sat quietly, waiting as she sorted through her thoughts. The patience he’d learned through long years of dealing with the king stood him well now.

“I am in love, Cuzralph, and don’t know what to do.”

“Ah. So that was why you refused Margaret.”

“I didn’t want this to happen,” she said.

“Would Margaret approve of him? Would I? Who is he?”

“Yes and no, yes and no, Sir Nicholas Grey.” Amice dropped her head into her hands.

“Let’s take this one step at a time. In the right circumstances, Nicholas could be an excellent choice for you. The timing is wrong. Margaret and Henry naturally looked higher.

“For what would Nicholas bring to the crown? Nothing. He’s already Henry’s man. But wait.” He leaned forward. “You’ve said nothing of
his
feelings for
you
.”

Amice bit her lip. “At one time he loved me, so he said. But we quarreled over something serious…that I’d rather not discuss now. We haven’t spoken since.”
And I miss him so.

Cromwell’s eyebrows rose. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Not unless you can make him forgive me and love me again.” She sighed, wishing she could will away the torment in her heart. “Just having someone to listen helps.”

Unless she and Nicholas could resolve their differences, unless the queen changed her mind, there was nothing anyone could do.

Harry finally had the cream, but thought he was going to lose his mind. And he hadn’t even heard the mandrake root scream. He’d only seen Amice once. She’d been carrying a book, hurrying as if to spend as little time as possible in the freezing winds.

He’d observed the maids until he found a likely candidate, Bronwyn. Welsh, young, with sparkling eyes and sweet lips. Maybe he’d have other uses for her.

He wore Edwin’s clothes when he approached her in the corridor near the hall. Wouldn’t do for her to know he was a scullery boy. Scullery man.

Harry spoke to her several times before broaching the subject of the lotion. Each time, he gave her a little trinket. By the end of March, he felt she was malleable enough.

“Bronwyn. I was wondering if you could do me a favor.”

She smiled back, the innocent, trusting smile of a virgin. “What do you need, milord?”

How he liked that she called him that. It sounded even better with her thick Welsh accent. “My cousin is visiting, and I’d like to surprise her with a gift. A special lotion with her favorite scent. Since the gift is to be a surprise, I’d like you to leave it in her chamber. I cannot risk being seen.” That was true enough. “I’ve written a note for you to leave.”

“What does the note say?”

“Cousin, a gift to welcome you.” The maid, of course, couldn’t read. The note really said, “From one who will have you.”

“I will do it. How kind you are.”

“Please let me know when you’ll bring it. I’d like to be nearby to share her surprise.”

“Why don’t we go now?”

After all this time, after exercising every ounce of patience, Amice would be his.

“Bronwyn, I almost forgot. The cream was quite costly and the scent is powerful, so she is only to use a very little. She’s to put it on the sides of her head, here.” He touched his temples. “Can you remember that?”

“Yes, milord.”

But Amice wasn’t in her room.

“We can try again on the morrow,” Bronwyn said amiably, handing him back the blue jar.

The next morning, Bronwyn was found dead.

Upon hearing of her demise, Harry opened the jar, recoiling from the almost sickly sweet scent. How much had Bronwyn stolen? Obviously the girl hadn’t been able to resist the lotion he’d made sound so wonderful and had used too much.

The setback proved that he’d have to apply the lotion. It would not do at all for Amice to end up like Bronwyn. Not at all.

Chapter 18

Tension gripped Nicholas at the prospect of talking to York face to face. Though protector, York remained his liege’s, and thus his, opponent. His nerves might snap if they stretched any tighter.

His future, and England’s, were at stake.

York nodded a greeting. He sat behind a large desk covered with rolls of parchment and maps. As Nicholas sat in a high-backed wooden chair, York indicated the cup of wine that had already been poured. Nicholas pulled it closer, slightly wary, his other hand resting on the lion’s head carved into the chair’s arm. He’d have to stay on guard with this man.

For a moment, each sought to maintain his portion of the battlefield; only the narrowest line down the center could belong to both. If they handled their swords well.

Adjusting the embroidered collar of his robe, York seemed weary. The creases beside his eyes were a bit deeper, the blue of his eyes dimmer than the last time Nicholas had seen him. The strain of responsibility was taking its toll.

“Your reputation for honesty precedes you,” York began. “I know you’re devoted to Henry. Unfortunately, the essence of the man is gone. For good, I fear. Despite what people say, I’ve never wished Henry any harm.”

Nicholas nodded, pleased York was so direct.

“We may never be able to call ourselves friends, but I hope we can work toward a common end. I need men such as you. If Henry’s supporters refuse to follow me, there can be no peace.”

Nicholas raised a brow. York, who’d more than once raised an army against his king, now wanted peace?

“I’ve come to realize I battle Margaret, not the people. They want food in their bellies and clothes for their backs. While Margaret wants the throne for her son. As I do for mine.” He sipped his wine. “Most of Henry’s councilmen want what is best for them,” York continued, setting down his cup. “I don’t want to butt heads with them, like a herd of goats.”

Neither smiled at the apt comparison.

“You ask a great deal,” Nicholas said. He needed time to think. He only made snap decisions on a real battlefield, where a split second of indecision could mean life or death. His mind flashed to William.

“Yes,” York agreed. “I’m not asking you to change your allegiance. As I told Parliament, should Henry recover, he shall be king. I merely ask for what I’d hoped would be given freely. The council’s complete support. Despite my belief that I should’ve been king, I’m loyal to Henry.”

Was York telling the truth, or trying to manipulate him? He thought of Amice, of her faith in York, of the risks she’d taken for his cause. But was the potentially temporary protectorate truly enough for this man, who seemed to crave wealth and control as King Arthur craved the Holy Grail? Or would he accept what he had now then ask for more later, when each new demand would seem a small thing?

“For now, I’m with you. I’ll do as you advise.” Choosing was a relief. “But I’ll watch and wait, like a hawk. Should you stray from your nest, I will stoop, and there will be no plea that can save you.”

York nodded, then sat back in his chair, palms flat on the table. Nicholas knew the duke wouldn’t reveal how much his concession meant. York would show no sign of weakness to a man who could yet again be an enemy.

Amice relished everything about being home, from the scent of her soap to the familiar faces. She could almost slip into her old routine and put Nicholas out of her mind. He’d always inhabit part of her, but she’d summon strength to make his portion as small as possible.

Only pleasant thoughts would fill her stay at Castle Rising.

Amice spent so many hours with the tallies and accounts that Cyril sought her out to make sure she was well. She tended her garden, visited the villagers. She tried to write, but when no words came abandoned the pen for embroidery.

She’d been surprised to hear Harry had been released, but also relieved. He must’ve given up his mission to marry her, for he’d been on his own for months now with no contact. One less problem to worry about.

“Amice,” Cromwell called as she walked toward to the stables.

“Cuzralph, I was going for a ride. Would you join me?”

“No, no, these old bones don’t climb on a horse unless they have to. You’ve fit right back in here, have you?”

“Of course. This is my home,” she answered, taking in deep breaths of fresh, familiar air.

“I meant you’re trying to make life as it was before you went to court.” Cromwell rested his hand on her shoulder. “I worry about you. You smile, but I know you’re brooding about something. Or someone.”

Amice’s attempts to avoid serious thoughts failed at his kind words. The back of her throat stung and tears threatened. “Everything was simple before. I’m not certain I like all I’ve become. When the queen locked me in the Tower, I realized I’d been accepting my life, as women are taught we must, but I wondered why. I don’t know how to get all I desire.”

“By striving for things you can obtain, and learning to do without those you can’t. Trust in God to provide. You’ll find peace if you can teach yourself to appreciate what you have,” Cromwell said.

“Father Heydon says it’s wrong to want to better your lot. I already have much more than many.” Amice took in the view of the bailey, the expanse of grass and oak and ash trees.

Would Cromwell, like Nicholas, view her actions as betrayal? “Those poems questioning who Prince Edward’s true father is. I wrote some…mine were true, but favored the Yorkist cause. And I copied documents for the duke.”

The relief at telling the complete truth felt as though she’d set down a basket of cabbages. The sun felt brighter and warmer on her face.

His mouth formed an
O.
“Why? Why would you do that?”

“York needed help. He believes this is one way to raise doubts about Margaret’s ability to serve as regent. The worse Henry became, the more squabbling I heard….”

“I’m surprised that you would involve yourself so. You’re right. I can’t seek Margaret’s aid knowing this. If you still care for Nicholas, you must go to him when we return. If he refuses you, will you be worse off than you are now?”

Amice imagined telling Nicholas the truth of her desires. She envisioned disdain and refusal in his eyes, how cold and harsh the blue of them would be. What if he laughed in her face? The humiliation of rejection couldn’t be more painful than the misery she suffered.

“It would prove there’s no hope for us. I’d have to forget him, and put Nicholas and life at court behind me. The ember of hope I cling to keeps the pain alive. If I could extinguish it, perhaps I’d recover from his loss. But I’ll never forget.”