The Rose at Twilight (7 page)

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.

H
ER BODY WAS BURNING
up. Her head ached, and her stomach felt as though knives were cutting her from within. Worst of all was that she felt too weak to move, even to open her eyes. There were voices, low but angry, both of them, arguing about water.

Water. Alys tried to speak. She would give her best gown and girdle for a sip of water. It was no use. She could not move, and she seemed to have no control over her voice.

“Nay, tha’ mustna!” The crackling voice was familiar but not so much so that she could identify the speaker. “Sithee, t’ sickness mun be sweated from ’er.”

The voice took her back to her father’s deathbed, to an echo of the puzzling words he had muttered. He seemed to be in the tent now, straight and strong as he had been before she went away to Middleham. She tried to call him, but he faded when a voice said, “She is delirious; she will die without water.” The voice was not her father’s. It was Nicholas, Sir Nicholas, the Tudor’s man, the enemy. Without opening her eyes, she could see him, could almost feel the crispness of his curls beneath her palm.

Why could she not move her hands? It was as though she were tied up, her arms bound to her sides, her feet so heavy she could not stir them. A cold, damp cloth touched her lips and blessedly cool water trickled down her parched throat. Then the cloth moved over her cheeks, her forehead, cooling them. She slept.

Her dreams were no comfort. Monsters threatened her, and dark, bottomless chasms opened beneath her feet when she walked. A black tunnel loomed before her, and from its depths a distant light beckoned. A voice called to her, Elizabeth’s voice. But Elizabeth was at Sheriff Hutton with Neddie—gentle Neddie, now the rightful Earl of Warwick. But he would never be what his formidable grandfather had been, nor even his father. He was not guileful like Clarence was. But Neddie and Elizabeth were not at Sheriff Hutton. She remembered now. They were … somewhere.

There were monsters again, and the heat, the dreadful heat. She had to move, to get away from it. Someone was holding her. She struggled, fighting this monster who would force her down into the flames, and then suddenly she was free, but it was as if she were falling, still struggling as she plunged and whirled, down and down. The heat was terrifying. Then she was caught and someone held her again, this time someone stronger than she was. So strong, in fact, that it was useless to struggle anymore.

The voice calling to her had weakened while her thoughts were diverted, but she could hear it again now and was tempted to follow it, to step into that dark tunnel, to see what lay beyond. Anything would be better than the flames, and the pain.

“No, Alys.” Only two words, but the voice unmistakable. Anne’s voice—gentle, sorrowful, firm. The tunnel faded. She became aware of other voices, nearer at hand. One was Jonet’s, another Sir Nicholas’s. There were at least two others. Oddly pleased with herself for recognizing the fact that there were four voices, Alys slept again, heavily and without the dreams.

The next time she awoke, she heard something altogether different. Someone was playing a lute and singing in a deep, pleasant voice, in a lilting language she had never heard before. Curiosity lent her strength, and she forced her eyes open.

At first she saw only the warm orange glow from the oil lamp, casting dark, dancing shadows on the walls of the tent. It was enough to remind her of where she was, and she wanted to see who was singing. Her mind suggested a name, but the very thought of it was absurd. He would not sing to her. And her imagination boggled when she tried to envision a graceful lute in his hands.

But it was Sir Nicholas, sitting on a joint stool by her pallet. The lute looked ridiculously small in his large hands, cradled against his broad chest, but his expression was gentle. When her gaze met his, she saw his satisfaction, but his voice did not falter, and she was glad. He had a wonderful voice for singing, deep and full. She could not understand a word of the song, but it comforted her, and she wanted him to go on and on.

When he fell silent at last, she said in a raspy voice that sounded completely unlike her own, “What was that?”

“A Welsh ballad,” he said quietly. “Only a tale of a boy and his sheep, but I liked it when I was a lad and fond of roaming, when I could, with the shepherds in the hills near my home. My mother used to sing it to me. How do you feel?”

“Hungry,” she said, “and thirsty.”

“Good,” he said. “We have broth keeping warm over a fire, and young Ian rode to Bawtry Priory to fetch bread for you.”

“You made Ian go?” Indignation put energy into her voice.

“He wanted to go,” Sir Nicholas told her, getting up and setting the instrument aside. “Your young Scotsman does not trust the English monks to give any of the other men fresh bread. He’s always had an eye for the lasses,” he added with a wry smile, “but I think you have become rather special to him. Rest now. I’ll send someone with your broth.”

She dozed again, but the sound of others in the tent soon roused her, and she made no objection when Sir Nicholas knelt to raise her so that Jonet could put cushions behind her. When he let her lie back again, she sighed, exhausted.