Tori Phillips (18 page)

The long-suffering squire nodded and dashed away. Rosie kicked off her slippers and wiggled her stocking toes with relief. The shoes still pinched no matter how long she wore them.

“Mayhap, Lady Alicia would like to play a hand or two of primero.” Rosie had just mastered this card game and had discovered that she could beat both Andrew and Jeremy with regularity.

Andrew pretended to be horrified. “Nay! Tis not in the least ladylike to win all of the countess’ silver coin. Sir Thomas would have my head in a basket.”

Rosie shrugged. “Tush! We will play for comfits or cherries.”

He gave her an amused look. “And you will grow too fat for the fine gown I have commissioned for you. Then what would you wear to the king’s feast?”

She curled her lips in an impish grin. “I could go in my petticoats. You said I looked fetching in them.”

He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “Aye,
you minx, fetching to my eye, but I fear you would shock the great Cardinal Wolsey.”

She tilted her head back for another one of his hearttugging kisses. “And King Henry? Would I shock him as well?”

Andrew caressed her lips with his mouth.

“You would incite unholy thoughts in our young monarch. Nay, you must stay properly clothed—except for me.”

She twined her fingers amid his brown and silver hair and pulled him closer for a deeper kiss. “Must you go just now, Andrew?” she whispered. She yearned for more of his passionate attentions. Her heart overflowed with love for him that she knew she could never reveal.

A sigh of regret escaped from his lips into hers. “Aye, when the king commands, we all must obey.”

A discreet cough interrupted further dallying. Jeremy looked very red in the face, either from running in the hot sun or from catching his master at play. Rosie adjusted her bodice and straightened her golden necklace. Jeremy could be such a killjoy at times.

“The earl and his lady have gone to visit the French encampment for the day,” announced the boy. “The Cavendish brothers and my Lord Stafford are already at the tiltyard in preparation for the joust.”

Andrew pursed his lips. “Perdition take it! Try Lady Mary.”

Jeremy shifted his feet. “I did, my lord. She and Sir Martin accompanied the Thornburys, and Lady Marianne is skylarking about.” He shrugged.

“Humph! Lady Marianne, sweet soul that she is, couldn’t defend a flea from a cat.” Andrew’s face betrayed his anxiety.

Rosie took his strong hand in hers. “Do not fret upon
my account, Andrew. I will be safe enough here by myself. I give you my solemn promise that I will not run away again.”

He knelt down beside her chair. “I know you would not, sweetling, but the camp crawls with evildoers.”

She placed her finger across his lips. “Thanks to my upbringing, I am quite handy with a knife. I can butcher a goose in the twink of an eye.”

He kissed her finger. “Tis not a goose that worries me.”

She tucked his hair over his ear. “Tis not a goose I would prick with my knife. Have no fears for me. I can take care of myself.”

He savored her lips again—a hard, lingering kiss as if he wished to burn his passion into her memory. “Pray God that you do, my sweet. I will station one of my men to guard you.” Then he cleared his throat. “Jeremy, gather up my scarlet finery and let us away. Rosie, take pen and ink and practice writing your name on a piece of foolscap as I showed you.”

She groaned. Penmanship was her least favorite occupation.

He gave her a stern look, though he marred the effect with a sudden smile. “Ladies should know how to sign their names. I will inspect your efforts upon my return. If not…” He pointed to the slate, now scored with marks and chalky smudges.

Rosie wrinkled her nose. “As you desire, my lord.”

He rolled his eyes in mock agony. “Do not ask me what I desire, sweet Rosie. You know it already. I will leave Nym outside on guard,” he added, naming one of his men-at-arms. Then he turned on his squire. “Jeremy! Quit standing there like a hobbledehoy! Let us be gone!”

Blowing her a kiss, he strode out. He shut the flap, leaving her alone in the hot airless tent.

Rosie bathed her face in a basin of cool water, then spent the next frustrating hour alternately writing her letters and making enormous blots. Her perspiration mingled with the ink on the paper and further marred her work. The sun beat down on the canvas roof.

After a while, she tossed aside the quill and bathed her face again. She poured herself some wine and liberally watered it. Then she opened the tent flap and prayed for a stray cooling breeze. She heard cheers and a fanfare of trumpets coming from the distant tiltyard. She wondered if Jack Stafford had fallen on his face yet. She put no credence in his boast that he was the finest jouster of the lot. She yawned and didn’t bother to cover her mouth as Andrew had often chided her to do. There was no one in sight except her guard. Even the camp dogs had disappeared. Everyone was out enjoying themselves except her.

Nym stirred from his spot in the scant shade. “Sir Andrew said you’re supposed to stay inside, mistress,” he muttered.

She sighed. “Tis hot and stuffy.”

“Aye, mistress, tis that.”

Rosie lowered the flap and paced restlessly around the ornate border of the Turkish rug. After finishing her wine, she got out the deck of cards from Andrew’s portmanteau. She returned to the table, pushed aside her writing materials and shuffled the cards. Andrew had told her that all ladies were expected to know how to play several diverting games of chance. She laid out a hand of patience and attempted to beat the deck. She poured herself more wine, but did not add as much water to it this time. The long, lazy afternoon dragged on.

After losing a third round, Rosie tossed down her hand with disgust. She yawned again and decided that a nap would be the best way to make the time pass. She went into the inner chamber, clambered on top of Andrew’s large bed and soon drifted into a light sleep.

A sudden movement roused her. When she opened her eyes, a heavy woolen blanket was thrown on top of her. Then she was scooped up and tossed over someone’s shoulder.

“Put me down, Guy! Tis too hot for such tricks.”

The churl only laughed.

She tried to kick him, but her toes flailed in the air. “Jack! Brandon! Stop! Andrew will be furious! This is no way to treat a lady!”

Her abductor slapped her soundly on the backside. Even through several layers of skirts and petticoats, the blow stung. “True enough, but you are no lady, are you, Rosie?”

A stab of panic coursed through her as she recognized Sir Gareth’s voice. She quelled her icy fear through sheer willpower. She would need her wits to escape this man. She had already seen what violence he was capable of.

He chortled in a nasty fashion. “You are a guttersnipe in borrowed feathers,” he continued. “But I will amend that mistake shortly. I intend to pluck you bare.”

Rosie shuddered. “Help!” she shouted. “Nym! Help me!”

With a terrible oath, Gareth cuffed her. “If you are screeching for that oaf Ford left outside, he is…indisposed.”

Rosie’s ears rang and she felt sick to her stomach.
I must leave a sign so they will know I have not run away again.
She fumbled with the clasp of her precious necklace.
It slipped from her neck and fell on the edge of the rug. Fortunately, neither Gareth nor his silent accomplice noticed it. Rosie prayed that Andrew would find it soon.

“Help me!” she shouted when they ducked through the entrance.

Gareth struck her again, much harder this time.

“Sweet Jesu!” she murmured, just before she fainted.

T
he supper hour had already arrived by the time Andrew and Jeremy returned from the masque rehearsal. Andrew was in excellent spirits. He had been given an especially large part to memorize and he knew he would be the center of attention when they presented their piece before Henry and his queen. Jeremy ran ahead to set the table. Andrew whistled the tune of the new galliard he had just spent the past hour learning. He prided himself on the height of his leaps.

The squire met him at the entrance. “Rosie’s gone!”

Andrew ground his teeth. “I expressly told her to stay inside, but she flouts me at every—”

The youth interrupted, “Nay, my lord. She was taken and Nym has a large bump on the side of his head.”

Andrew tensed. Jeremy tied open one of the tent flaps. Inside, Nym lay on the rug nursing a gash behind his ear. “He dragged himself in here but passed out before he could help her,” Jeremy explained in a low voice.

“Fetch water and clean his wound,” Andrew instructed. He knelt down beside the guardsman. “Who did this foul deed?”

Nym grimaced as he pulled himself into a half-sitting
position. “The devil, my lord! I was struck from behind. From a distance, methinks I heard Mistress Rosie acalling help, but…” He grew silent.

Rage engulfed Andrew. He wanted to tear through the entire encampment, slashing open every tent until he found his beloved. Then cold reason took the upper hand. He realized that he needed help. “Touch nothing but Nym’s head,” he told his squire as he strapped on his sword and scabbard. “I will return anon.”

He dashed through the village of pavilions toward the Cavendish family campsite. He prayed that the Thornburys had returned from their visit to the French. The soft glow of candlelight shining through the canvas cheered him.

“What ho, Sir Thomas! I am in dire necessity!” Andrew shouted outside their tent.

He almost wept with relief when the earl himself lifted the flap.

Sir Thomas Cavendish furrowed his graying brows when he saw his former squire. “How now? What is all the fuss about?”

Andrew barely paused for breath. “My Rosie has been snatched from under my nose. My guard lies sore injured and my own blood boils. I have come to beg your help and Buttercup. I fear the worst.”

The earl stepped outside in the gathering twilight. A fierce spark leapt into his Nordic blue eyes. “Softly, old friend. You know better than to begin a hunt while hot under the collar. Jan!” he bellowed for his current squire. A tall young man appeared around the side of the tent. “Fetch my sword and dagger. Put Buttercup on her leash. Tell my wife—”

“Tell me what, Thomas?” Lady Alicia appeared in their entranceway.

Andrew groaned inwardly. She would kill him for his neglect. “Rosie has been abducted by some enemy of mine, my lady. God help me, I wish it were not true.”

Her eyes flashed. “Thomas! You must find the poor child!”

Thomas swore under his breath as he guided her back inside. “Aye, my love, but until I do, I request that you remain here in safety. Nay, Alicia, I will brook no arguments now. Haven’t the time. When the boys return from their bathing, send them after us. Tell them to come armed. Nay, not a word!” He kissed her hard on the mouth, then backed out of their tent and dropped the flap.

Jan reappeared with Thomas’ heavy sword in one hand and the leash of a large, yellow hound in the other. The earl grunted his approval as he girded himself. He gathered Buttercup’s leash in his hands, then turned to Andrew. “Show me where she was. Step lively!”

Ford needed no urging. He ran to keep apace with the earl’s long strides. Buttercup strained at her leash and wagged her whiplike tail with anticipation. When they reached Andrew’s tent, Thomas released the dog and allowed her to explore the interior. He called for more light, then he dropped to all fours and investigated the rug.

“Someone with dirt on his boots came in here. Observe.” He outlined the faint mark. “Tis not yours nor the boy’s for you make a religion of wiping your feet. Tis your villain, I warrant.”

He crawled forward, following the tracks. Buttercup joined him, sniffing deeply. Andrew watched them, his heart hammering in his throat.

“Aye, girl. Scent him out.” When they reached the inner chamber, Thomas stood and leaned over the rumpled
bed. He plucked one of Rosie’s long blond hairs from the pillow.

“The lass lay down—asleep, no doubt. See here?” He pointed to the prints of two boots beside the bed. “The knave grabbed her here.”

Andrew gritted his teeth. “I will flay him alive.”

Sir Thomas grunted. “Must catch him first, my boy. Buttercup, mark!” He pointed to the place where Rosie had lain. “And here, mark!” He pointed to the boot prints.

Buttercup circled the spot on the rug. Then she jumped on the bed and circled the pillows. Andrew made no complaint when her paws added more dirt to his bedding. He cared for nothing but Rosie’s safe return.

Thomas watched his dog with grim satisfaction. “Most sensitive nose in Christendom. Can smell out a single man in a mob. Like her great-grandsire Deuce. Pup looked fit to die, but he turned out to be the best tracker I ever had.”

Buttercup quivered. The hair on the scruff of her neck bristled.

Thomas licked his lips. “Find him! Seek, Buttercup. Find him!”

With her nose inches above the rug, the dog circled the main chamber again. Andrew opened his mouth to complain that she wasted time, but Thomas held up his hand for silence. Buttercup hovered over a spot near the edge of the rug. Jeremy crept closer to the huge animal, and pounced on a small object that Andrew had missed.

“Tis her necklace.” He held up the slim gold chain with its roses.

Thomas patted the dog. “Good girl! Seek! Find her!”

Like an arrow shot from a bow, Buttercup jumped through the open entrance. She circled the ground outside,
then trotted to the left around the rear of Lord Emerickes’ tent.

The earl, Andrew and the two squires followed close behind her.

In the purple gloaming, Thomas’ eyes gleamed with the thrill of a chase. When Andrew had served as his squire, he had often seen that look and it boded ill for the pursued.

“The game is afoot!” the earl rumbled under his breath. “Do you know whom we seek?”

Andrew gripped his sword hilt. “Methinks tis Sir Gareth Hogsworthy. He has coveted Rosie and plagued me for keeping her.”

“Aye,” Thomas replied. “But where has he hidden the lass? The man is no lackwit. He would not drag her back to his own lair.”

Andrew nodded grimly. He did not want to contemplate what Gareth would do to her once he felt he was safe from discovery.
Rosie, my love, hold on! I will save you, or die. I am dying now.

Buttercup led them away from the nobles’ area. Then she veered to the right, and cut around the tents of the royal servants. People glanced up with wide-eyed surprise as the dog and her followers raced past them, but neither Andrew nor the others spared a breath to enlighten them.

They crossed one of the wide avenues that radiated out from the center of the English encampment. Buttercup swept into the plainer, smaller tents of the hundreds of clergymen who had accompanied the great Cardinal Wolsey to France.

Andrew mopped the sweat from his streaming face with his sleeve. “My lord, methinks Buttercup has taken a wrong turn.”

The earl shook his head. The dog picked up the pace. She headed for the last ragged row in that holy section. Thomas stopped so suddenly, Andrew nearly fell over him. Ten feet ahead, Buttercup circled outside a brightlylit tent. The flaps were closed and were securely tied from within. Muffled laughter seeped through the thin canvas.

“Methinks we have found our quarry,” he whispered.

Andrew started forward, but the earl held him in a vise grip. “Never charge a maddened boar, my boy. You get more by stealth.” He gave a low whistle and Buttercup bounded back to his side. Thomas rubbed her ears and held her by her collar. Then he turned to the panting squires.

“Creep close and cast an eye through the flaps if you can. Be nimble on your feet, boys. If they spy you, race away from us. Now, foot it!”

The squires slipped past them. Andrew chaffed at the wait.

“Why send those striplings to do a man’s job?” he whispered.

“Because they can run faster than either of us, Andrew. We are not in the springtime of our youth, no matter how sprightly your Rosie makes you feel.” He squeezed Andrew’s arm. “Hold fast! We’ll get her back.”

The squires flitted among the deep night shadows. When they reached their objective, they slithered along the side until they passed slowly by the slit entrance. Andrew held his breath. The boys doubled back and made a second pass.

“A pox on their hides,” he whispered to Thomas. “They will give the game away.” His nerves screamed under his skin.

The squires disappeared behind a neighboring tent. The sounds of merrymaking continued unabated. Jeremy materialized out of the darkness. His face looked white in the faint light of the quarter moon. His lower lip quivered.

“Aye, she’s there, but…” He gulped.

Andrew dug his fingers into the boy’s shoulder. “Is she hurt?”

Jeremy swallowed. “They have tied her down across a trestle table, my lord,” he whispered. His voice shook with his anger.

Andrew’s wrath boiled up in his throat. He unsheathed his sword. He would kill them all. Thomas tightened his grip on his arm. “Nurse your fury in silence a moment longer. Jan, how many within?”

“Five,” the older squire said. “Two lords, their squires and a cleric.”

Andrew ground his teeth. “There is no man of God in there, but one who worships Satan. I’ll send him to his infernal master.”

Thomas drew his great sword and his dagger. “Jan, find my sons and lead them here. Jeremy, return to your tent and prepare for your master’s return. He and the lass will require food and warmth. See to it!”

Both boys dashed away in the darkness. Then Thomas turned to Andrew and grinned wickedly. The earl’s teeth gleamed in the moonlight, giving him an unearthly look. “Shall we join the feast, my boy?”

Andrew didn’t trust himself to speak, but merely nodded. He gripped his sword tighter. The two men and the dog crept up to the tent. Thomas motioned to Andrew to stay by the entrance with Buttercup while he circled to the rear. The minutes dragged on leaden feet. Andrew felt as if he would jump out of his skin.

Then the peace of the night was shattered by the earl’s battle cry. “A Cavendish, to me!” he roared in bloodcurdling tones. Andrew sliced open the tapes that held the flaps and charged inside. “Attack!” he shouted to Buttercup.

Many things happened at once. Buttercup sprang at Hogsworthy whose back had been to the entrance. Thomas, still bellowing his war cry, slashed a large rent in the rear. The other four men tumbled over each other in their frantic haste to get away from the dog’s fangs.

Andrew noted little of this. Instead, his gaze was riveted to Rosie. Her beautiful eyes dark with fear, she lay dressed only in her shift on the table. A cloth had been jammed into her mouth to silence her cries. When interrupted, Gareth had been in the act of unlacing his codpiece.
‘

The earl touched the villain’s private parts with the tip of his sword. “Move a whisker, I beg you. Twill be my pleasure to relieve you of this.”

Gareth blanched and stood very still. Meanwhile, the dog had backed the other four into a whimpering, cowering huddle. With a strangled cry, Andrew severed Rosie’s bounds then gently pulled the cloth from her mouth. Recognizing him, she burst into tears and turned away, hanging her head in shame.

Andrew covered her with his masquing cape and held her close to his chest. “Rosie, tis all right. You are safe now with me.”

She shivered inside the scarlet satin and gave herself over to convulsive sobs. The pitiful sound tore at his heart. While he held her tight, he stared over her head at the putrid knave who had degraded her so abominably.

“You are not fit to walk in the company of men,
Hogsworthy. Your name should be stricken from the list of honorable knights for the distress you have caused this fair maid.”

Despite the proximity of the earl’s sword point, Gareth had the gall to retort, “I see no damsels in distress here, but only a whore being well-used—bought and paid for by me. You had her for over a week. Tis my rightful turn now.”

The earl nicked Gareth’s sensitive skin. The man shrieked several curses. “Is this how you fight your battles, peacock?” he jibed Andrew. “You call on your old master? Afraid to dirty your pretty clothes?”

The fire of Andrew’s rage had already spent itself, leaving an ice-cold hate in its place. He narrowed his eyes and regarded the other man as if he were a mangy rat in a trap. “Nay, I do my own fighting. I challenge you to a joust of war, Hogsworthy. The tiltyard at two o’clock tomorrow afternoon. Look to it, you loathsome canker, for I swear to you that my sword and my lance will not be blunted. They thirst for your foul blood.”

He lifted Rosie off the table and carried her out of the reeking place. There, he encountered the Cavendish brothers and Jack. “Your good father and Buttercup have brought a crew of patches to heel and they would be much glad of your assistance in some hearty sport. Do not prick Hogsworthy too badly for I have vowed he is mine alone.”

Brandon and Guy exchanged grins and drew their swords. Jack came alongside Andrew and touched Rosie’s cheek. She flinched.

“Is she hurt?” he asked in a hoarse voice.

Andrew kissed the quaking girl on her forehead. “Aye, Jack, in body and in spirit.”

Jack’s handsome face hardened. “Then I will ride with you against her foe.”

Andrew looked deep into the young man’s eyes and saw a brother’s revenge burning there. “Tomorrow at two in the tiltyard.”

Jack nodded and then followed after his cousins. Andrew shifted Rosie into a more comfortable position and started back toward his tent.

Her sobs subsided into hiccups and whimpers. “I…I am so as…ashamed,” she said through her tears.

He brushed another kiss on her forehead. “Not your fault, my love,” he soothed.