Tori Phillips (20 page)

“Lord have mercy!” Rosie moaned.

The next fifteen minutes were utterly terrifying for her. Silently, she prayed for Andrew’s success as she watched the two men thunder down the course with their deadly lances aimed at each other’s heart. On the third pass, Gareth’s point caught Andrew’s shield and tumbled him off his horse. A jarring crash echoed around the arena, and the crowd went still.

With a small cry, Rosie leapt to her feet. Only Guy’s hands on her shoulders restrained her from climbing over the railing and running to Andrew’s aid. At the far end of the arena, Jack lowered his visor and signaled for his lance. When Andrew rolled over and clambered to his feet, Rosie sagged with relief. Guy eased her down onto her seat. His mother offered her the half-empty cup of wine. Rosie drank without tasting the fruity vintage.

Gareth dismounted slowly at the near end of the arena. Both squires rushed to their masters with their broadswords.
Unsheathed, the naked steel gleamed wickedly. Rosie shivered.

Though Andrew was a few inches shorter and a few years older than his opponent, he moved with more agility. Despite the heavy armor he wore, he danced around Gareth, wielding the sword at every turning. Rosie followed each move with her heart in her mouth.

“He fights well,” she exclaimed to the countess.

Behind her, Guy chuckled. “Andrew is one of the best swordsmen in England. He schooled Brandon and me. We still cannot best him.”

The combatants continued to trade ear-ringing blows. Rosie felt she had aged a decade since the fray had begun. By now both men staggered with fatigue. Andrew appeared to have trouble holding up his shield. Finally, he backed away from Hogsworthy, and tossed the heavy protection aside. Then he gripped his long sword with both hands and advanced.

“Tis his injured arm,” Brandon muttered in an undertone. “He must end this quickly now.”

Rosie trembled as fearful images of what might happen gathered in her mind. She twisted the handle of her fan until it snapped in two. Hogsworthy swung in a wide arc. Andrew ducked. From his crouching position, he lunged and delivered a stunning blow to the other man’s breastplate. Like a mighty oak felled by the woodsman’s ax, Gareth wavered a moment, then toppled backward in the deep sand.

Andrew followed through with a second slash to the man’s sword arm. The weapon rolled from his opponent’s limp hand.

Guy sucked in his breath. “God’s blood! Methinks Andrew broke Gareth’s arm with that blow. I could feel it in my own bones.”

Andrew pointed the tip of his sword at Gareth’s neck. The crowd cheered, while Rosie shuddered.

“Andrew will not kill him, will he?” she asked Lady Alicia.

“The cur deserves it,” Brandon answered, “but old Andrew has always been a tenderhearted fool. Rest easy, Rosie. Watch.” He gestured to the judge’s box. The Earl of Thornbury, majestic in the ermine-trimmed red robe of his office, rose from his seat and held out his white stave.

“Hola!”
he shouted. His deep voice filled the arena and silenced the audience. “Cease and desist all further combat. We declare for the challenger, Sir Andrew Ford. Honor has been satisfied.”

Andrew turned away from his defeated opponent, then saluted the judges with his sword. The earl pointed his stave at Gareth.

“Sir Gareth Hogsworthy, the charge against you has been proved by combat. You are guilty of dishonoring the Lady Rosalind Stafford in words and in deed. You have disgraced the order of chivalry. For your punishment, you will sit astride the palisade in full armor until the sun sets this day. You will have no water, no food nor succor. I command the marshals to see that this punishment is completed to the full measure. In the hearing of this company and on behalf of the lady whom you so wrongfully mistreated, I abjure you, Sir Gareth. In the name of King Henry, I banish you from this place and from the future company of knights. By this time tomorrow, you will be gone from the soil of France or face the penalty of death.”

The earl paused, and pointed to each end of the list where Fitzhugh and Jack waited with lances poised. He shook his stave and ended the joust with the traditional
cry,
“Chevauchez les bannières!”
The squires dipped their banners in acquiescence. Fitzhugh and Jack saluted the king of arms, then rode out of the arena.

With an exhausted sigh, Rosie slumped against Lady Alicia. “Pray, is it over?”

Brandon chuckled. “Aye, for Andrew. But tis only started for Hogsworthy. In this heat, he will cook merrily inside his armor. The sun will not set for many hours.”

Rosie shook her head. “Though I hate the churl, I feel sorry for him.”

Guy turned down his lips. “Spare your feelings. Think on Andrew instead. Lo, he comes. Now give a happy greeting to your champion.”

Rosie looked up to see him approach their seats. The nobles around her cheered and applauded. Their joyous noise filled her with a bursting pride and she added her applause to the general tumult. At the base of the dais, Andrew pulled off his helm and cowl. Sweat streamed down his face and slicked his hair against his head. Rosie and Alicia stood as he saluted them.

Andrew smiled up to his proven lady. “Prepare a bath for me, sweetheart,” he said between gasps for breath. “The wretched dust of France plagues every part of me. God’s teeth, gentleman! I have not had such good sport in a month of Sundays.”

Before Rosie could make a reply to her lord, Brandon leaned over and whispered, “Mark you, his appetite will be high tonight. Make sure that you satisfy
all
of his needs. Andrew deserves no less from you.”

Her temper flared. “My thanks for your advice, Sir Brandon, but I have learned what is expected of me. You men think all women were put on earth solely for your pleasures. Sir Andrew proved nothing by his victory. I see it still makes no difference whether I am a lady—or a strumpet.”

D
espite her angry retort to Brandon, Rosie greeted Andrew with a steaming bath and a warmer smile on her face. The display of his courage had revealed another facet of this most complex man. While he relaxed in the tub, Rosie attended to his cuts and bruises. His arm wound had reopened a little, and she tenderly cleansed and rebandaged it. Meanwhile, Jeremy procured the choicest foods from the cook tent. After he had set their table, he bowed to both his master and Rosie. Then he left. them to enjoy their supper and privacy with each other.

Wiping his mouth with his napkin, Andrew sat back in his chair and beamed at her. “Tomorrow, we will continue your dancing lessons. Your pavan needs much work and the time speeds apace.”

Rosie crumbled a sugar wafer in her hand. “My lord?”

His eyes crinkled with merriment. “The king’s banquet, sweetling. Surely such an important event has not slipped your mind.”

Studying him for a moment, she tried to discern if he was jesting with her. “Methought the joust confirmed
my counterfeit ladyship. You have already won your wager, though you have paid a high price to do it.”

His grin broadened. “Not so. The king was not present this afternoon. Nay, my wager was to set you before Great Harry and all his court at the final feast. If you can hoodwink His Grace there, I have won.”

She rolled her eyes. “You fell too hard on your head this afternoon and some of your fine brains spilled into the sand. This doggish stubbornness of yours will be your undoing. It gives me cold comfort.”

Andrew kissed her hand with many gentle caresses of his lips. “Then let me warm you,” he whispered. “Come to bed, Rosie.”

Her passion for this impossible man rose in her like a leaping fire. His tender persuasions clouded all her common sense. Willingly, she gave herself to him and reveled in his exquisite lovemaking.

Afterward, she lay in his arms and listened to his even breathing as he slept. Though she savored the feeling of satisfaction that seeped through her, the leering faces of Gareth and his evil cohorts intruded into her imagination. She stared up at the tent’s peaked roof and tried to shake away her disquiet.

With a sigh, Rosie pressed a soft kiss on Andrew’s shoulder. Exactly what did Andrew want from her that she had not already given to him? His obsession with his wager had already cost him a great deal of money, bodily injury and the enmity of Sir Gareth. Now Andrew teetered on the brink of complete folly. What if the king discovered that he had brought a common harlot into his presence? She shivered at the thought and snuggled closer to his warm, strong body.

In his sleep, he tightened his arms around her. Despite her apprehensions, she smiled in the darkness. Her lips
tingled in remembrance of his wealth of kisses. She knew she would do everything in her power to win the wager for Andrew. She would even dance that wretched pavan into hell itself—or at King Henry’s banquet. She loved this clever madman past all reckoning, no matter the ultimate price she must pay.

And then what? The question nagged her. What will happen to her when the kings departed and the servants packed up the lavish tents and the colorful banners? Andrew had promised to pay her the money she had worked so hard to earn. Was that to be her final reward—a few pennies and a cheerful kiss goodbye?

Her memory fluttered back to that improbable night she had first met him. How grateful she had been then for just a good supper, a clean bed and his comforting promise not to touch her! How stupid she was! Hadn’t the Cavendish brothers and even Jeremy warned her that she was merely the latest of Andrew’s temporary fixations? She was God’s own fool to have fallen in love with such a heart-breaking rogue. Rosie pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes as if she could blot out that sobering thought. Long after the midwatch, she finally fell asleep.

Andrew spent the next few days schooling Rosie in her manners, speech, dancing and general deportment. Every morning a flock of French seamstresses fluttered around her, fitting her for the sumptuous gown she would wear. Brandon and Guy occasionally visited to monitor her progress but Jack Stafford noticeably stayed away. While Rosie wondered at his absence, she had no time to give the matter much thought. Every evening she fell into Andrew’s bed exhausted by the humidity and the day’s lessons. Every night her lord taught her how
to love him all over again. With chains of patience and tenderness, he bound her closer to himself.

By the night of the king’s banquet, Rosie was a tangle of nerves. Lady Mary and her maid had arrived an hour earlier to help Rosie dress. Closeting Rosie in the bedchamber behind the closed drapery, Lady Mary worked her magic not only on Rosie’s toilette but on her spirits.

“Hoy day, my dear! You will take the court by storm.” Mary laughed with girlish glee.

Rosie twitched her shoulders. “It itches.”

Mary smoothed her chemise. “Cloth of gold is a beautiful material but tis true, it itches. But how splendid you look. You shimmer when you move. I cannot wait to see all those lords and ladies bowing to you!”

Rosie stared into the mirror while Mary wove strings of pearls in her hair. “How can I look them in the eye?” she whispered.

Mary giggled. “Imagine everyone standing there without a stitch of clothing on. You will carry the moment very well.”

Rosie grinned. Just thinking of Andrew naked and in bed was very pleasurable indeed. Then she saw the pearls that Mary draped around her neck. “Hold, my lady. Tis too marvelously rich for me. I fear I will lose it.”

Mary ignored Rosie’s protests with a laugh. “I trust you.” She pinned a filmy golden veil to the wreath she had made of Rosie’s hair and pearls. “There now. You are fit for a king.”

Rosie strove to look as calm as Mary. Stepping back from the mirror, she adjusted the fall of her skirts. The
French seamstresses had created the most beautiful gown she had ever seen. Panels of vibrant red satin fell from the waist to the hem of the gleaming cloth of gold underskirt. Every move that Rosie made caused the satin to sway in an enticing, seductive manner. She practiced walking up and down the cramped chamber. She wore more petticoats than ever before and they rustled like leaves in a breeze. Rosie plucked at the enormous puffed sleeves of red satin that were slashed to show off the golden undersleeves that spilled from under the tight satin wristbands. Pearls, and tiny diamond-shape mirrors trimmed the square neckline and weighted down the satin panels of the overskirt.

After tugging one last time on the gold cord that laced her split bodice together, she lifted her chin. “I am ready, Lady Mary. Lead me into the lion’s den.”

Andrew scrambled to his feet when the maid drew back the drapes. Astonishment arched his brows and his mouth fell open. Brandon and Guy, who had been lounging on the coffers, fell over their own feet in their haste to stand. Jeremy, with a small salver of wine cups in his hands, froze in place. Jack Stafford stood transfixed in the entranceway.

Rosie fidgeted under the silent male scrutiny. “Has my hair turned green? Should I charge you each a halfpenny to stare at me like I was a two-headed dog?”

Andrew recovered his wits first. He swept her a gallant bow. “Beloved lady, you outdazzle the dawn! It appears that our little bud has blossomed into a most beauteous red rose. What say you, gentlemen?”

“Oh, ho, Rosie!” Brandon’s laughter rumbled up from his great chest. “Had I not witnessed this transformation, I would not have believed it!”

“Aye,” Guy agreed, clapping Brandon between the
shoulders. “You have conjured a miracle, Andrew! Rosie, you are a marvel.”

Jack crossed the rug, lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it with surprising reverence. “You are indeed every inch a lady,” he said in a low undertone. “Bards will sing of your beauty after this night.”

Rosie stared into his clear blue eyes. “My Lord Stafford—” she began.

He shook his head. “Nay, I am only Jack to you, sweet Rosie.”

She cocked her head and wondered what he had been drinking. He gave her the
oddest
smile, not at all like the lecherous ones she was used to seeing on his lips. “Jack, I apologize for the joust. I did not tell them that my last name was Stafford. Pray do not—”

“I told the pursuivant,” he said.

Rosie flashed him a stern look. “If you mean to make a jest of me—”

He interrupted her for a third time. “Never, Rosie!” He laughed.

“Nay, Rosie,” Brandon added with a wicked glint in his eye. “Methinks Jackanapes means to make a jade of you and—”

He had no opportunity to finish. Jack turned on him and threw his best friend to the ground. “Speak with a civil tongue when you talk of Rosie in my hearing or you will rue it, Brandon. This I swear.”

Andrew stepped between the two ruffled roosters. “Gentlemen, I pray that you settle this dispute at another time and place. We cannot pause now for a bout of wrestling, nor will your wardrobes abide it. In the meantime, Brandon, you will do well to heed Jack.”

Rosie knotted her brows into a perplexed frown. “My Lord Staf…that is, Jack, I do not understand.”

He gave her another kiss, this time on her cheek. “I know. I cannot tell you the whys and wherefores of my mind now, sweetheart, but I beg you to trust me. One day I will explain, but until then, know that I stand at your right hand, ready to defend you against all manner of evil.”

She leaned closer to him and whispered, “Methinks your wits have been parboiled inside your helm, but I am happy to humor your delusion.”

Andrew drew her hand in his. “Enough of this prattling, my children. Brandon, escort your lady aunt, and let us away. I hope you have been lucky in your gaming skills this past week, or else you have your letters of credit signed and sealed. My wager is as good as won.”

He led his party out of his tent. They traveled up one of the five broad avenues to the center of the English encampment where the royal pavilions stood. Rosie shielded her eyes against the late afternoon sun. At every step some nobleman or gentlewoman called greetings to Andrew and to his Lady Rosalind Stafford. She smiled and nodded first left, then right.

I must not become too enamored of this beautiful name. Tis borrowed finery like the gown and pearls I wear.

Andrew chuckled. “You are a triumph already, my dear, and we have not even arrived at the banqueting hall.” He called over his shoulder to Brandon. “Count out your sovereigns now, my boy!”

Rosie prayed that the evening would go as well as its beginning. She tightened her grip on Andrew’s arm.

A vast sea of people wearing the most splendid garments joined their procession. The brightly decked courtiers laughed and tossed compliments to each other like showers of sweetmeats. Ladies’ veils and long,
hanging sleeves fluttered in the freshening breeze from the Channel.

Andrew adjusted the tilt of his black velvet cap across his broad forehead and winked at Rosie. “You outshine me, sweetling. I am a drab crow next to your fine feathers.”

She shook her head. How could he say that when he knew he was the most handsome man in sight? Once again, his apparel excelled all others. The full coat he wore was an extravagance itself. Made of a black velvet brocade and studded with sparkling topaz gemstones, it fell to his midthigh and drew attention to his muscular legs clad in black silken hose. The padded sleeves made his impossibly wide shoulders look even more so. Under the coat, he sported a jerkin made of the same cloth of gold as her gown. His jeweled dagger hung from his equally bejeweled belt. He was the living personification of the star god Orion.

His codpiece was his most flamboyant to date. The satin triangle flashed with a myriad of topazes against the black background of his black satin breeches. People could not help but stare at its sheer audacity of so many bright jewels clustered on one prominent area. Andrew caught her staring at him.

“How now?” He grinned at her. “Is something amiss?”

“I pray that we do not meet with a real crow, my lord, for he would covet your…ah…your jewels.”

Andrew chuckled low in his throat. “Hmmm, is that so? Only a crow, my sweet? Pity. I had hoped to attract a certain red Rose.”

Rosie swallowed hard, choking back the wave of tingling awareness that coursed through her. The task ahead of her was great enough without her desire muddling her
brains. She needed to keep all her wits about her and she had best remember that.

When they reached the encampment’s hub, Jack dashed ahead toward a curious fountain. He ran up its two wide steps, grasped one of the many silver goblets that hung from chains around the base, and dipped it into a waist-high basin. “A toast to my Lady Rosalind!” he cried to the milling crowd. “Who will join me?”

“Jack has lost his last shred of dignity,” Rosie whispered. “He is making a spectacle of me. Please, Andrew, do something.”

Instead of shouting at the youth, Andrew dragged her up the steps to join him. On close inspection, she saw that two kinds of wine flowed without ceasing from twin spouts. A gilded statue of Cupid cavorted over the stream of malmsey while a cheerful golden Bacchus presided over the rivulet of claret.

Andrew took a goblet and glanced to her. “Which is it to be tonight, my dear? The god of Love or the god of Wine?” His beautiful hazel eyes flashed a wicked challenge.

“I could use the god of Courage,” she replied with as much cheer as she could muster, “but I will choose Love in its stead.”

He could not have looked more pleased. “You choose wisely. May this wine give you that which you most crave.” He dipped the cup into the malmsey, kissed its rim and held it out to her.

I crave only you, Andrew Ford, but no wine on earth will grant me that wish.
She smiled, took the cup, and quaffed a large draft. Kissing its rim, she returned the goblet to him.

He grinned and drank over her kiss. The Cavendishes and their merry aunt joined the toast. Then they proceeded
toward the most lavish pavilion Rosie had ever seen. She tugged on Andrew’s sleeve.