The Rose at Twilight (15 page)

After that, things moved more swiftly than Alys expected, for the king did not keep her long, awaiting his pleasure. She was scarcely bathed, brushed, and gowned in tawny velvet—a dress that she suspected was sadly out of fashion—her hair oiled and arranged beneath a gauzy butterfly headdress, before the summons came. Lady Emlyn led her across the entire width of the palace to the doors of the presence chamber, then abruptly left her.

Alys was taken into the royal presence by an armed yeoman, which surprised her, for she knew the Plantagenet kings had been surrounded by gentlemen, not soldiers. The yeoman’s dress was elaborate enough for a royal palace, however, for he wore green trunks and hose and a white damask tunic embroidered with green vines decked with silver and gold spangles. A red rose, the device of Lancaster, was embroidered in the center of the design, both front and back. Inside the presence chamber, along with a large, murmuring crowd of elegantly attired nobles and gentlemen, there were other armed yeomen wearing the same uniform. The new king clearly did not feel safe, even in his own palace.

Henry Tudor sat in an estate chair on a raised dais. Having imagined him a cross between the magnificent Edward Plantagenet and the devil (with possibly a Welsh touch of Sir Nicholas thrown in), Alys had expected a tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired man; so Henry, with his long pale face, gray eyes, and straight, shoulder-length light brown hair came as a shock. Though he was royally gowned and bejeweled, and seemed to be above middle height, he looked more like a scholar than a king. His elbows rested on the arms of his chair, and he slumped a bit against its back. His hands, clasped beneath his pointed chin, were thin and pale, not those of a trained knight but more like her father’s hands had been. His nose was long and pointed, his lips thin and colorless, and there was a red wart on his right cheek.

Silence fell upon the white-and-gilded chamber, and Alys realized that the yeoman had spoken her name. She sank into her curtsy, bowing her head, hating herself for bending her knee to the Tudor, but unable to contemplate the consequences of refusal. In that moment, she understood defeat as she had never before understood it. And once again she was glad that Anne was dead and had never had to submit herself to the usurper.

“You may rise.” Even his voice sounded thin. King Edward’s voice had been loud and generally merry. Dickon’s voice had been more controlled, firm rather than imperious, except when he spoke to Anne. Then it had always been gentle, even when he had had to deny her wishes. Henry’s voice, in her opinion, was that of a rather lazy priest, certainly not that of a king.

She straightened, hoping her headdress was straight and that the skirt of her tawny gown was not caught up somewhere it ought not to be, revealing more of her emerald-green underdress than was seemly. She was hot in the crowded room and would have preferred to have worn damask or brocade, but the occasion had called for the most elaborate gown she had brought with her, velvet or not. She had not thought much of fashion at Drufield Manor, for such thinking was not encouraged by Lady Drufield. But now that she was at court, she would have to find a way to acquire some fashionable new gowns. Perhaps Henry would choose to be a generous guardian.

He had said nothing further. He merely looked at her as though he examined some oddity or other. Not wishing to appear to challenge that look, Alys dropped her lashes a little and allowed her gaze, thus veiled, to wander.

The Tudor was flanked by two yeomen guards and backed by the three standards he called his own—the Cross of St. George upon white silk, the fiery red dragon of the Tudors on white and green sarcenet, and the Dun Cow of the Warwicks—but Alys’s gaze swept past them to the attending gentlemen, their splendid clothes making her more aware than ever of her outdated gown and headdress. But then her eye was caught by a familiar smile, and she found herself staring at Sir Nicholas.

If not for the smile, she might not have recognized him so quickly, though he stood in full view. He had put aside his brigandine for a pale gray hip-length robe, lined and turned back with pale rose velvet, its hanging sleeves trimmed with the same. The pourpoint beneath it, worn over his white shirt, was a darker rose. His hat, worn over a cap of emerald green, was a soft, rose-colored beaver surmounted by black and white ostrich feathers. He had cast off his leather chausses in favor of pale rose-colored hose, buff pedules turned down to show their ochre lining, and black shoes. Thinking he looked truly splendid, Alys forgot to keep her eyes veiled and allowed her widened gaze to sweep over him from top to toe.

“We trust your journey was not unpleasant,” the Tudor said.

Snapping her head back around to face him, Alys felt heat flash to her cheeks, but she managed to say with tolerable calm, “No, your grace. It was not unpleasant.”

“Sir Nicholas Merion looked after you well then.”

“Yes, sir.” The warmth increased, for she knew Sir Nicholas was watching her, perhaps even laughing at her. The last thought brought with it a strong desire to say that he had mistreated her, just to see what the Tudor would do, but Nicholas had not done so, and she would not lie about that. Indeed, she had no wish to speak further of him, so instead she asked, “What is to become of me now, your grace?”

The king frowned and said curtly, “You are of small import at the moment, Lady Alys. Your father is dead, and your brother is under attainder for his role in the recent unpleasantness. I may yet choose to show him mercy if he submits to me. The Earl of Lincoln, Sir James Tyrell, and many others have already done so. But until then—in faith, until we can arrange to have your unfortunate betrothal to the Yorkist Sir Lionel Everingham set aside by the Church—you will reside in the Tower. At present you have no fortune but what I choose to settle on you, so I must consider if your wardship shall be bestowed elsewhere, and if so, whether the bestowing must result in loss to our treasury.”

She nodded. His meaning was clear enough. The likeliest fate she might expect was to become what women so often were, a pawn in the game of power. Anne had lived her life so until she had married Dickon. Anne’s father had exploited her to further his own ends, unheeding of her wishes, and it had been little more than good luck that she had ended as Dickon’s wife, though she had loved him from her childhood.

At least, Alys thought, she knew now that Roger, Lincoln, and Sir Lionel had survived Bosworth—and a man named Tyrell, as well. She remembered her father saying that name. But if Tyrell was the Tudor’s man now, he would be no use to her. Until the king decided what to do with her, she would have no real freedom to act on her own, though she would be housed in a royal castle and treated in a manner befitting her station. The Tower of London had been one of Edward the Fourth’s primary residences, and she knew that both he and Richard had frequently held court there. The Tudor would no doubt do the same, so he had chosen to treat her well. He might easily have gifted her to one of his soldiers instead, for she was but one of the spoils of war.

Her audience with him was over shortly after it began, and she returned to the bedchamber allotted to her use only long enough to collect her scarlet cloak before she was taken by barge back up the Thames to the Tower. The barge landed at a wide stair, where a yeoman helped her disembark, and together they crossed the royal wharf and entered through the Cradle gate. The Tower of London was a great deal larger than either Wolveston or Middleham, and she had time to notice only a few gray-white stone buildings and a broad green central lawn before she was taken inside. A short time later, having gone up two pairs of stairs and through a number of chambers and halls, she was ushered into a comfortably furnished sitting room. The yeoman bowed, turned on his heel, and left.

Alys turned from the door and crossed the room to the nearer of the two tall narrow windows. Peering out, she saw that it overlooked the central area and the green lawn.

“Goodness, who are you?”

The rich feminine voice startled her, and she whirled in surprise to discover a pretty, dark-haired, violet-eyed young woman a little larger than herself. The stranger’s head was tilted to one side, and she examined Alys with open curiosity.

Alys, pleased to find that she was not entirely alone, replied in a friendly way, “I am Alys Wolveston. Who are you?”

“Madeline Fenlord. Ought I to know you? I do not recognize your name, but I am shamefully ignorant, or so my father often tells me. To be sure, I have noticed that he mentions the fact only when I disagree with him, but that happens frequently.”

Even at Middleham, where Alys and her companions were permitted freedoms generally not accorded to young women, she had known no one who would speak so blithely of filial disobedience, and she regarded Miss Fenlord with blank astonishment. “Goodness, do you dare to disagree with your father? I should never have done so with mine.”

Madeline grinned, showing a row of even white teeth. “I am here because I am not only an unnaturally disobedient daughter but a grossly indulged one, and I confess, I was hoping you were just such another, for if you are properly submissive and obedient, we shall scarcely have time to get to know one another before I shall find myself alone in these apartments again.”

“You need not fear that,” Alys said with a sigh. “I am to stay until my betrothal has been set aside by the pope, which may take months. You see, I have been taken into the king’s ward.”

Madeline’s head tilted the other way, reminding Alys of the way a bird examines an insect before snapping it up in its beak, and she said thoughtfully, “Your betrothal is to be set aside, is it? You are a Yorkist then, or your intended is one.”

“Both,” Alys said, “although the king did say that many have already submitted to him. Perhaps Sir Lionel is one of them.”

“You do not sound as though you are too dreadfully concerned about him,” Miss Fenlord observed.

Alys shrugged. “I do not know him, so I have little feeling one way or another.”

“I understand completely. ’Tis why I refused to marry the last man my father selected. He is the son of another Devonshire knight, but I knew naught of him save his name, and that cannot recommend him, for ’tis Sir Humphrey Twaddleham. Only think!”

“I do not know the name,” Alys confessed.

Madeline chuckled. “’Tis not that it is unknown, for that would not sway me. ’Tis merely that I have no wish to spend my life as Madeline Twaddleham, like a rhyme sung by a jester.”

Alys laughed. “How dreadful, to be sure! I was to have become Alys Everingham. There is naught to complain of in that.”

“Perhaps not, though the fact is that I do not wish to marry any man. I think men are, in general, both stupid and childish, and I have no desire to entrust my fate to one.”

Alys’s jaw dropped. “But what will you do?”

“Do not look so alarmed. I shall not die for lack of a husband, you know. My father indulges me delightfully, as do my brothers. I had four of them. My sisters all died young.”

“And your brothers? You say you had four?”

Madeline’s brow clouded. “My eldest brother, Jack, died when he was seventeen, fighting for King Edward at Tewksbury.”

“Then you are Yorkist too!”

Madeline’s smile flashed again. “Generally, although my brother Robert was with Buckingham and the Lancastrians at Shrewsbury. Willie and Alexander are only boys, but Will is a staunch Yorkist. My father is hoping he and I will soon come to our senses. Father believes King Henry is here to stay. In faith, he hopes he may be, for he believes he will bring peace to England, especially if he has the good sense to marry Elizabeth Plantagenet, though Father is skeptical about whether he will or not. Thankfully, Henry Tudor, immediately upon his arrival in London, accepted Robert’s service with the late Buckingham as a sign that our family had seen the light early. He was saddened, however, by Father’s refusal to force me to wed Sir Humphrey, who chances to be one of the Tudor’s strongest supporters.”

“Another excellent reason to refuse him,” Alys said tartly.

“Do you think so? I confess, I had not thought about that. My father, you know, refused to become involved in the wars. We were a trifle out of the way in Devonshire, so no one demanded his allegiance when it might have proved awkward to grant it, and thus he managed nicely, except for losing Jack, of course. But Robert cares more for the land than Jack did, so perhaps that was why God spared him.” She paused, then added with a twinkle, “To refuse Sir Humphrey because of his being Lancastrian would not be tactful, I fear. Indeed, it might be the very thing to make the king command the marriage, and I doubt I can depend upon Father’s continued indulgence of my wishes if that were to occur.”

“But why has your father not commanded it? I do not understand how you can refuse to do as you are bid.”

“Well, I could not, of course, if he did command me,” Madeline agreed. “But when Father consented to hear the first suit for my hand—there have been many, for I inherited my mother’s fortune when she died after Willie was born—I told him I would enter a convent if he commanded me to marry any man. That was merely to prevent him from threatening to send me to one, you see. I know that is a favorite ploy of fathers, for I have a friend at home in Devonshire who was tricked in just such a way and who lived to regret agreeing to her marriage.”

“Goodness,” Alys said, “but surely, if the king decides you must wed, you will have no choice but to obey.”

Madeline shrugged. “I have to take care, of course, and I confess I was not prepared to find myself in the Tower. Father brought me to London because I begged him to do so, and we were here when the king entered the city. Father went to him at once, of course, to swear fealty, but the king was a trifle skeptical about my family’s loyalties, and invited him to leave me as a royal guest until such time as they had shown he could truly trust them. Thus, you find me a prisoner here like yourself.”

“A prisoner! But we are not prisoners,” Alys protested.

“Oh yes, we are,” Madeline informed her flatly.