The Rose at Twilight (25 page)

Madeline shrugged. “It appears that our late king named your father Warden of the Eastern Ports, and that revenue pours straight into the Wolveston coffers. Did you not know? There are a number of villages, too, they say, that became part of the estate during King Richard’s reign. The news of the worth of the place did surprise most people. Marry, the word had only begun to get about a day or so before Lord Wolveston’s death.”

“I did not know. There was always money, but I never thought about its source. Nor did I ever see much of it.”

Madeline’s eyes twinkled. “Sir Lionel Everingham, you will be interested to know, has renewed his suit for your hand.”

“But I am to be betrothed to—”

Madeline shook her head. “I told you, the Stanleys are all muttering as if an imp had put ashes in their porridge. Talk is that the king means to prevent wealth from accumulating in only a few families as it did before. ’Tis his opinion—or so certain of the ladies do say their menfolk have said—that Richard made a grave error by allowing the Percys, Stanleys, and others of their ilk to grow so strong. Henry intends to scatter the wealth, to award it to his most loyal followers. Many are surprised that he did not merely seize Yorkist lands outright and gift them to his favorites; however, they do say he is a canny sort, that he does not want to alienate the northerners. Therefore”—she paused with an eloquent look—“he means to use the institute of marriage to introduce many of his favorite Welsh and southern lords to the north. They will thus get their rewards without stirring such outrage as there might otherwise be.”

Alys was silent, thinking. She glanced at Jonet, but the woman said nothing, nor could anything be read in her expression. Remembering Madeline’s comment about Sir Lionel, she said, “The Tudor will never betroth me to a Yorkist like Everingham.”

“No,” Madeline agreed, “but to hear Sir Lionel speak, one would never know he had had the least thing to do with Yorkists. He is now, he insists, the king’s most loyal follower.”

“He is naught but another turn-tippet then, and I shall refuse to have aught to do with him,” Alys said firmly.

“’Tis my belief you will be granted no choice in the matter,” Madeline said. “The king seeks no assistance from others in political matters, but you need not fear marriage to Sir Lionel Everingham.
He
is not a royal favorite.”

An image of one who was a favorite flashed through Alys’s mind, stirring unfamiliar sensations in her midsection, which she had no wish to identify and which she promptly dismissed. Since the Tudor could command as he pleased, naught was to be gained by opposing him, and no one would support her. It was a pity, she thought, that as wealthy as Madeline believed her to be, she had no money at hand, nor any of the power that vast wealth would convey to anyone other than an unwed maiden. To have a say in one’s future would be as intoxicating as heady wine, though she had not the slightest notion what she would choose to do.

The command for her to present herself to the king came late that afternoon, and by then her curiosity was well aroused, for Madeline, who had spent the intervening time imparting all the court gossip—including the interesting fact that there was cause to hope that Elizabeth might be carrying Henry Tudor’s child—had likewise presented in turn, for consideration as bridegrooms, each of the Tudor’s nearest followers. Her comments were pithy and amusing, but Alys knew none of the men personally, and what little she heard of them gave her no yearning to know more. It was, in any case, a matter of indifference to her what husband was chosen for her—or so she airily insisted to her companions. But when Lady Emlyn came to command her to prepare at once to attend the royal presence, she found it suddenly difficult to breathe or to speak.

“Do not stand gaping, child,” her ladyship said sharply. “You have little enough time as it is. You there, woman, fetch out your mistress’s best gown, and you, Mistress Fenlord, bestir yourself to assist us. I have been wondering these past two hours where you had hidden yourself.”

Madeline ignored her, saying anxiously to Alys, “Shall I send for ale or wine? You are as white as newfallen snow.”

“She requires not wine but rouge,” Lady Emlyn snapped. “Fetch it out right swiftly, for she must not show that pale countenance to his noble grace, lest he think her ailing.” She rejected as unsuitable the first gown Jonet brought forth, a pretty long-sleeved robe of rose velvet, bordered in gold braid. “’Twould be best, Mistress Hawkins, in view of her recent transgression to remind his noble grace of her even more recent bereavement,” she declared. “Has she nothing more somber in nature, yet nonetheless elegant, to wear?”

“Aye,” Jonet said, returning to the wardrobe in which Alys’s gowns had been placed and extracting a dress of brocaded dark gray damask edged in Naples lace. “Will this one do, my lady?”

Lady Emlyn nodded, then said, “Has she a silver belt to wear in place of that bejeweled, gold-link one she now wears?”

Jonet began to nod, but Alys, having had enough of being discussed as though she were air, said firmly, “I will wear the gold. ’Twas a gift from one I hold most dear, and I shall wear no other. Fetch out my pearl necklet, Jonet,” she added quickly, fearing that Lady Emlyn would demand to know the belt’s origin and then, learning that Anne had given it to her, categorically forbid her to wear it.

Lady Emlyn, however, folded her lips and disdained to continue the argument, saying nothing more until Alys was dressed. But when Jonet would have plaited her hair in order to confine it out of sight beneath her veil, Lady Emlyn interceded again. “Leave it free,” she said then. “His grace prefers to see maidens with their tresses unbound. A black lace coif to match the trimming of her gown will suffice as her headdress.”

When Alys was ready at last, she followed the plump dame to the presence chamber, her heart pounding harder the nearer they approached. What she had seen of the Tudor thus far did not lead her to suppose that he would greet her misdeeds with laughter. Even if he had changed his mind about betrothing her to Lord Briarly, he would certainly be displeased with her, and could, if he chose, arrange to make her life an endless misery.

To her dismay, when the yeoman guard opened the doors, the king’s presence chamber was teeming with people, all gowned in rich clothing, chattering like squirrels, while a quartet of fiddlers played near the royal dais. The din thus produced was punctuated by an occasional tinkle of feminine laughter or a masculine bellow for more wine. Yeoman servants passed about, serving the hot mulled wine called hippocras in golden cups, and comfits from golden platters. It was the hour called voides, which by royal command now preceded the six-o’clock trumpet call of the heralds to announce that supper was about to be served. Alys had not realized the day was so far advanced.

A carpeted strip leading from door to dais, up the center of the long, rectangular room, was being kept clear, and Lady Emlyn, having paused upon the threshold, said to Alys, “Precede me, if you please. The king is waiting.”

Taking a deep breath and wishing her heart would stop thumping, Alys obeyed, keeping her eyes downcast at first, until she realized that the sound level in the room was diminishing. Glancing from one side to the other, she saw that people nearby had broken off their conversations to watch her. And with each step she took, others fell silent. She raised her eyes then, to look directly at the king, determined that no one in the room should recognize her fear. Not until then did she become aware that Elizabeth was seated beside the Tudor, at his right.

As usual the princess’s beautiful face was set serenely, but Alys looked into her eyes and saw smug triumph there. Whether the look was due to the fact that Elizabeth was thought to be carrying the king’s child, or to the fact that she knew and approved of his decision regarding Alys’s fate, Alys could not know. She did know, from experience, that Elizabeth’s expression boded her no good. The room had fallen silent. She heard the clink of the gilded mirror attached to Lady Emlyn’s belt, against some other bauble she wore, when the woman came up beside her.

Just then the king’s fool, dressed in motley with a belled cap perched atop his orange-dyed curls, and sitting on the edge of the dais at his master’s feet, leapt up, turned a handspring, and pointing at Alys, burst into laughter and recited tauntingly,

“Pit pat, well-a-day,

Little Alys flew away.

Where did little Alys flee?

She fled into the north country.”

Grinning in response to chuckles from the audience, he laid a finger aside of his nose and went on in the same tone,

“Pit pat, alas-alack,

Little Alys has come back.

Will she, nill she, ring-a-ling,

Bend Yorkist knee to Tudor king?”

Alys, feeling telltale warmth in her cheeks, did her best to ignore both him and chuckles she heard, and sank into a deep curtsy. When the fool laughed again, she looked up to meet the king’s gaze. Not daring to appear to challenge him by continuing to stare boldly into his eyes, she looked down again.

The fool recited then, in his singsong voice,

“Little Robin Redbreast

Sat upon a pole,

Niddle, noddle

Went his head,

And poop went his hole.”

The shouts of laughter from the assemblage broke off as if someone had slashed them with a knife, and Alys, blushing deeply, looked up again to see that Henry had shifted his gaze to the fool. The king said not one word, just looked at him, but with bells tinkling madly, the fool flung himself at the royal feet.

“Have mercy upon poor Tom Blakall, my master! His tongue hath run away with his brains!”

“Begone from our sight, Tom Blakall; thy words displease us,” the king said quietly. When the fool, not daring to speak again, had fled, Henry said, “Rise, Lady Alys. The antics of Tom Blakall do frequently amuse us, but he has offended our taste by failing to heed your recent loss. We have beseeched our Lord to look mercifully upon you in your bereavement.”

“You have my thanks, your noble highness,” Alys murmured, rising obediently. She was grateful that he had sent the fool away, but her gratitude was overridden by an undutiful wish that Henry might look as mercifully upon her as he had beseeched the Lord to do, and an even stronger wish that he had chosen to say whatever it was he meant to say to her in a more private moment.

He looked at her thoughtfully for a long moment before he said, “You did not choose to wed our cousin Stanley?”

Alys flushed. “I crave your pardon, sir. I behaved badly.”

“In good sooth, ’tis true. But circumstances having altered, it is no longer our wish to see you wedded to him. To see the Wolveston estates added to the Stanley coffers would not suit us. Your future lies otherwhere, Lady Alys, and we trust you will not see fit this time to defy our command.”

“N-no, sir,” she replied, wondering why it was that her skin was prickling when the man had made her no threat, had not even seemed especially displeased with her. His very calm was disturbing to one who had known the Plantagenet rages of King Edward, the generally milder but no less ominous displeasure of his brother Richard, and the equally disturbing tempers of Sir Nicholas Merion. There seemed to be no passion in Henry, only a subtle intensity of manner that baffled Alys, and frightened her. She believed him to be a ruthless man who permitted himself neither emotion nor illusions.

He stood up, and Alys stepped involuntarily backward, treading upon her own skirt, but she managed not to fall.

The king smiled. His smile was singularly attractive, bringing animation to his aquiline features, and lighting his face. A twinkle began to dance in his eyes. For the first time he looked amiable, even cheerful, and Alys began to understand how it was that men had chosen to follow him. He looked past her for a brief moment before his gaze came to rest upon her again.

Elizabeth stood now, too, smiling at someone behind Alys, and Alys wished she had the nerve to turn and look.

“Lady Alys,” Henry said, “there is one not unknown to you who deserves our grace and favor.”

Alys’s heart skipped a thump. Her breath caught somewhere between her breast and her throat. Though she was aware of movement and speculative murmuring from the company around her, she dared look only at the royal feet on the carpeted dais. She strove to breathe slowly, evenly, as Anne had taught her to do.

The king’s voice came again, this time as though he spoke through a long tunnel, from far away. “Sir Nicholas of the Welsh house of Merion, step forward.”

Alys swayed and would have fallen, were it not for a firm hand clapped beneath her elbow. For a moment, she thought the hand belonged to Sir Nicholas, until Lady Emlyn’s sharp voice sounded in her right ear.

“Collect yourself, girl! Would you disgrace yourself before the entire court?”

Alys drew herself up but refused to turn to see if Sir Nicholas had obeyed the royal command. Looking instead at the king, she saw that he was remarkably pleased with himself.

Sir Nicholas made his bow beside her.

Henry grinned at him. “We are pleased to commend our ward to you as a suitable bride, sir. What say you?”

Sir Nicholas was silent for so long that Alys, suddenly indignant, turned to glare at him. He ignored her, but she recognized the glint of humor in his eyes when he replied to the king, “I suspect you do me no great favor, my liege. She has already led me a dance the length and breadth of all England.”

Alys heard a gasp from somewhere behind her and feared that Sir Nicholas had overstepped himself, but a deepening of the royal twinkle proved that he knew his master well.

Henry said, “’Tis good she has given you opportunity to see the English countryside, sir, and marriage to her will benefit you in other ways as well. ’Tis a sadness now that we sent Tom Blakall from our presence, else he might enumerate them for us.”

Chuckles could be heard from the company, and Alys felt as if her cheeks were on fire. She dared not look at anyone.

Sir Nicholas said evenly, “’Tis to be hoped those benefits will outweigh the heavy penalties, my liege.”