Tori Phillips (21 page)

“There? Tis the king’s palace?” She gaped at the series of connecting tents that stretched before them. The sun’s waning rays glanced off the sides of the golden canvas. Painted leaves, trellises and pillars decorated the outside. Banners of green and white snapped from every tent pole.

Guy crowed at her awe. “Nay, tis only Great Harry’s banqueting hall. His palace lies yonder.” He pointed to a larger building of canvas that was painted to look like brick and plaster. Real glass covered the large arched windows.

“Tis a wonderment,” Rosie conceded. A monument to vanity, she added to herself. Why couldn’t the king have been contented with his banqueting pavilion? It was gaudy enough by itself.

Lady Mary’s husband, Sir Martin Washburne, waited together with his daughter and the Thornburys at the torchlit entranceway. Rosie swept the handsome earl and his beautiful countess a deep curtsy.

Sir Thomas’ eyes gleamed with approval. “You have done well, Andrew. Very well indeed.”

Lady Alicia kissed Rosie on the cheek. She smiled then brushed away a tear. “If only your dear mother could see you now.”

My mother would have probably sold everything on my back for a pretty penny.
Aloud, Rosie thanked the countess for her compliment. She wondered why more tears dewed the lady’s thick lashes.

Leading Buttercup on a red leather leash, the imposing Earl of Thornbury, now flanked by his equally imposing sons, created a wide path through the crowd for Andrew and Rosie to follow. The countess, Lord and Lady Washburne
together with Jack and Marianne brought up the rear. Rosie had the momentary sensation that she was being led to the gallows.

The dusty ground was paved with bricks, and over this sturdy floor lay several layers of Turkish rugs that were even more lavish than Andrew’s prized possession. “Ohhs” and “ahhs” escaped Rosie’s lips as her lord led her deeper inside this true-life vision from a poor girl’s dream. The harried lord chamberlain pointed to empty places at a long banqueting table in the main section of the hall. Andrew lifted Rosie over the bench, then sat down on her right. Jack quickly took the place on her left while the Cavendish clan sat opposite them. Buttercup settled herself under the table at Sir Thomas’ feet.

The clamorous din swelled when a fanfare of goldenthroated trumpets announced the entrance of the king and queen. Andrew helped Rosie to her feet and gave her a reassuring wink before they made their reverence. The royal couple ascended to the head table and took their places under a wide canopy made of cloth of gold.

“Tis the most costly thing I have ever beheld,” Andrew whispered. “And I have seen a great many lavish accouterments in my time.” He kissed her earlobe.

Rosie barely heard his remark, though she shivered with delight at the momentary touch of his lips. King Henry in all his magnificence had captured most of her attention. The twenty-nine-year-old monarch was so splendidly arrayed and so bejeweled that he sparkled with his every movement. His sleeveless coat of purple velvet strained at his massive shoulders. When the king turned, the cloth of gold lining caught the torchlight. A jaunty purple bonnet trimmed with ermine perched atop his reddish-gold curls.

Rosie stared at the king’s ring-studded fingers, at his
diamond-and-sapphire buttons that marched down his gold brocade doublet and at his massive collar of huge golden links. Smiling at his subjects, Henry twirled an eye-popping diamond the size of a walnut that hung on a chain from his collar. Almost engulfed by his presence, sweet Queen Catherine looked like a plump woodland duck.

Rosie squeaked with alarm when some of the fur around Henry’s neck moved. A long, ringed tail waved in the air. Two bright black eyes set in a puckish furry face blinked at the scene. She clutched Andrew.

“Fear not, tis only the king’s current pet. Tis called a marmoset and comes from the New World. Henry dotes on the creature.” he explained.

She made a quick sign against the evil eye. The animal reminded her of a gargoyle on a church rain spout. Another riff of trumpets announced a ponderous fat man dressed entirely in scarlet. He mounted the dais with difficulty then turned a piggish eye on the assembly.

Jack leaned over her shoulder. “Tis the great Cardinal Wolsey himself,” he whispered. “He is the real power behind the throne, though he looks like a hog dressed in red satin.”

Rosie suppressed a giggle. The cardinal made a huge sign of the cross and the crowded hall fell completely silent while he intoned a mercifully short prayer of praise and thanksgiving. At the “Amen” the hall erupted with joyful clamor as the fifteen hundred courtiers sat down to dine.

Thankful that she was hidden from the king’s view by Andrew’s enormous puffed sleeves, Rosie began the most lavish meal she had ever eaten. Lifting her lavender-perfumed napkin, she discovered that her trencher was a plate made of real gold. So was her goblet
that the steward filled with claret. So were the great candlesticks that dotted the center of the table. So were the ewer’s basins and the massive salt cellars. Her vision swam with gold.

The first course of baked turbot, cold smoked salmon and asparagus in a light lemon sauce was followed by a spun-sugar subtlety made to represent the season of spring. The second course of roasted peacocks, quails and fresh cucumbers in a vinaigrette followed. Under the table, Buttercup growled to claim her territory when several small greyhounds attempted to steal her scraps. One of the grooms of the hounds who moved along the banquet tables snapped his small whip and shook his bells at the quarreling dogs.

After drinking a few goblets of the choice wine, Rosie felt much more at ease. Both Jack and Andrew watched over her in a delightfully protective fashion and the entire Cavendish family treated her as if she were one of them, instead of an interloping commoner.

Waves of servers continued the progression of rich food while the noise increased under the gilded canvas roof. Noblemen shouted to each other across the heads of the multitude. Ladies spoke in strident voices and shrieked when the king’s little monkey scampered among the goblets and platters. People called for more wine, more venison, more quince in comfits. The dogs snarled and bickered under the tables. Great Harry’s boisterous laughter rose above the general hubbub while he pelted his friends with sugared almonds and marchpane fruits. The king’s favorite harpist, Blind Dick, sang before the high table but Rosie could barely make out a word or two of his song.

A dull headache formed behind her eyes. She hid the discomfort and smiled, made polite conversation and
tried to remember all of Andrew’s etiquette lessons. She hoped she would be able to stand up after this long meal was over, for Andrew had told her there would be dancing to follow. The heat from hundreds of bodies melted the decorative sugar creations and softened the candles in their holders. Great globs of hot beeswax plopped on the damask tablecloth and mixed with the stains and spills of the endless food and wine.

She took another sip of her claret and wished she could put her head in Andrew’s comfortable lap and go to sleep. She nodded over her serving of pears in cinnamon and cream when a crashing sound startled her out of her daze. Standing on top of his table on the other side of the hall, Sir Edward Fitzhugh banged two platters together.

“I crave the king’s ear!” he shouted.

Andrew narrowed his eyes. “What the devil does that popinjay think he is doing?”

Sensing a novelty, the pavilion miraculously quieted. The silence was almost as deafening as the noise. A prickle of warning shivered down Rosie’s spine.

Andrew slipped his hand in hers. “Keep your head up, and do not chew your lip, my sweet. Your lips were meant for kissing, not for dinner.”

She tried to give him a smile but her mouth felt as if it had frozen in place despite the stifling heat.

Great Harry rose, planted his hands on his hips and bellowed, “How now, my lord? Why do you break our good cheer with your rude noise?”

Fitzhugh smiled like a reptile. “I crave your pardon, Your Grace, but your feast has been dishonored. One of these gentlemen has dared to bring a whore into the royal presence.”

Rosie stiffened. The hot chamber shimmered before
her eyes. Andrew gripped her cold hand. Jack swore under his breath.

The king chuckled and scanned the hall. “Only one, Fitzhugh? Usually there are more.”

The guests laughed and applauded the king’s wit. A hot blush stained Rosie’s cheeks.

Fitzhugh shook his head. “Nay, sire. I do not mean a woman who is gentle born but one who is straight out of the foul gutters of London.”

The king appeared intrigued. “And who is this farflung wanton?”

Andrew massaged her icy fingers. “Keep your head high.”

Rosie gulped for air. “How do I keep from fainting?” she mumbled. She wondered if she should throw herself upon the king’s mercy and thus spare Andrew from the threatened embarrassment and royal displeasure. She started to rise, but he tightened his grip and held her in place.

“Do nothing but smile!”

Her lower lip trembled. “But, Andrew—”

“Smile!”

With a broad sweep of his arm, Fitzhugh pointed to Rosie. “There, Your Grace. Sir Andrew Ford has tainted your hospitality with a common tavern wench—a slut who takes all comers for a groat.”

Rosie sagged. “God shield me!” she whispered through numb lips.

Andrew wrapped his arm around her shaking shoulders. “Keep your head high. Please, do not cry now, my love.”

The king stared down at the couple. “Sir Andrew! Bring forth your lady!”

J
ack half rose out of his seat, but Andrew clamped his hand around the rash youth’s arm. “Sit down, hothead!”

“Let me tell him who—”

Andrew tightened his hold on the boy until beads of perspiration broke out on Jack’s forehead. “Tis not the time for such a rash action. Twill make you look a fool and could put Rosie in mortal peril. Your father has many friends here.”

Jack glared at him but sank back down, mumbling oaths. Andrew stood and turned to Rosie. The poor girl looked like a deer ready to bolt. Though his own mouth had gone dry, he flashed her a brilliant smile of confidence. He had called this tune in jest. Now the piper demanded to be paid.

“Take my hand, Rosie. Royalty does not like to be kept waiting.”

She raised her fear-widened eyes to his. All the blood had drained from her face, making her look even more beautiful in the candlelight.

“I cannot,” she whispered.

Andrew steeled himself to speak harshly. She must not lose her nerve now. “Cannot?” he retorted. “I
thought I had bought a spitfire who stood barefoot on a barrel and challenged the world with her eyes. If you do not stand up now, I will wash my hands of you this instant.”

A steely glint replaced the fear in her expression. Her temper visibly rose. “Very well, my lord. Damn your bloody wager! Lead me to rack and ruin.” She gave him her hand and glared daggers at him.

Forgive me, sweet Rosie, I promise I will make amends for this.

Andrew escorted her to the base of the dais. There he made a deep reverence before the king and queen. Rosie sank to the rug in a graceful curtsy and remained there with her golden head bowed.

Andrew cleared his voice so that every soul in the hall could hear him. “Your Grace, I have the honor to present to you my Lady Rosalind, the most beautiful of all England’s fair flowers save for our blessed Queen.”

Henry’s eyes gleamed with hungry appreciation as his gaze roved slowly over Rosie. He descended the steps and leaned down to cup her chin between his fingers.

“Rise, my child,” he told her in a voice as seductive as silk.

Andrew chewed on the inside of his cheek as Rosie gracefully stood. Without a hint of the terror he knew she felt, she looked straight into the king’s eyes and smiled.

Great Harry chuckled. “Aye, Ford, methinks you do not exaggerate this time. You are welcome to my court, Lady Rosalind.”

Rosie inclined her head. “My humble thanks, Your Grace,” she replied in a voice as sweet as silver bells. “I am honored almost beyond speaking to be here this evening and to see you at long last.”

The king’s smile grew wider. “Very pretty, Ford. And very prettily said, my dear.” He looked over their heads to her accuser.

“Tell me, my Lord Fitzhugh, is this the same lady whom your good friend Sir Gareth so dishonored that he was punished and exiled?”

Fitzhugh, who should have recognized the danger in the king’s mild tone, grew redder in the face and replied, “The very same, sire. Now that jester Ford seeks to make a mockery of you under your own roof.”

Andrew prayed that his nerve would hold for the next five minutes.

The king lifted one sandy brow. “Does he now?” He glanced at Rosie.

She tossed back her head and turned up her smile a notch.

Good girl!

With his rage boiling unchecked, Fitzhugh plunged ahead. “That woman is no lady! She is a filthy whore!” he shouted.

Out of the corner of his eye, Andrew saw Jack grip the hilt of his dagger.
Keep your temper, Jackanapes, or twill be the Tower for us all.

The king smiled. “She looks newly washed to me,” he observed. “Be careful whom you call a harlot, my lord. Methinks there are a number of ladies here present who have not slept only with their husbands this past fortnight. You dishonor them as well. How many challengers do you wish to face in the tiltyard tomorrow, eh? Ten? Twenty? Fifty?”

Great Harry laughed and broke the tension. The hall filled with the answering laughter of the lords and ladies. They subsided when the king’s expression changed to simmering anger.

“You have broken our good company this evening with your churlish accusations, Fitzhugh.”

The idiot did not have the sense to know he was in serious trouble. “But, Your Grace—”

The king held up a hand glittering with rings. “Since you cannot be silent, you may leave—at once. Go, pack your baggage and be off to England. Skulk in your castle at Bodiam until we send for you again.”

He snapped his fingers and two of his halberdiers stepped out of the corners of the chamber. They marched down the center between the tables until they stopped in front of Fitzhugh.

“These men will aid your leave-taking,” King Henry remarked. “And, Fitzhugh, in case you or Sir Gareth harbor any further ill-feelings toward this wronged lady or her knight, be aware that they have my personal protection. Adieu!” He waved him away. Amid much laughter, the flushed lord and his escort left the hall.

Andrew released his breath.

“Fie upon you, Ford!” bellowed the king.

Andrew swallowed. Rosie shot him a quick glance.

“Your Grace?” he murmured in his throat.
God in heaven, protect Rosie and me from the king’s protection.

Great Harry chuckled. “You have been most niggardly in bedecking your dainty prize with jewels to accent her beauty.”

Andrew was so relieved that he could not frame a clever reply.

“Permit me to amend this omission.” Henry removed a small ruby ring from his finger, then took Rosie’s hand and slid his gift onto her thumb. Her hand shook. Then he leaned over and kissed Rosie fully on the lips. She gasped and blushed.

“By the bones, my lords. Twas a kiss of an angel,”
the king announced to the assembly. “I perceive no wanton jade here, but only a sweet maid named Lady Rosalind.”

The gladsome company applauded the king’s judgment. Rosie’s lips trembled. Andrew desperately wanted a large goblet of wine.

Then the king lowered his voice and spoke to the couple. “Guard your prize well, Ford. She is too beautiful by half.”

Andrew swept him another bow. “Exactly, Your Grace.”

Great Harry took Rosie’s hand and turned it palm up. He touched each of her work-hardened calluses with his lips. Then he gave Andrew a conspiratorial wink. “Very well played, Sir Andrew. My compliments.”

Andrew caught Rosie’s hand as she sank into another deep curtsy. He bowed to the king, then led her back to their places while the hall shook with the sounds of cheers and stamping feet. Grinning like an imp, Jack helped Rosie to her seat. Brandon blew her a kiss while Guy lifted his goblet to her in a silent toast. Andrew collapsed beside her and mopped his face. Never in his life did he want to relive those past five minutes. He offered his wine cup to her. She grasped it with shaking fingers, but did not look at him. She took a long swallow.

Hoy day! I see I will have some fences to mend this night.

The rest of the banquet blurred in Rosie’s mind. The dancing began after the last of the twenty-four courses had been served. Though she had expected Andrew to partner her, Jack claimed the first pavan. Andrew lounged on the bench grinning like a cream-fed cat while Guy and Brandon chortled and crowed over his success.
Rosie snorted.
His
success? Ha! If she hadn’t kept her head, he would have lost his infernal wager—and his place at court, no doubt. She did not want to think about what might have happened to her.

Guy claimed her for the galliard, then Brandon partnered her during the basse dance. Then Jack led her through a breathless, twirling branle. Even the formidable Earl of Thornbury danced a pavan with her, and complimented her on her graceful moves. Meanwhile Andrew sat, and watched her with that look of selfsatisfaction on his face. The more Rosie thought about his smug demeanor, the more she fumed.

When gallant Lord Washburne returned her after another basse dance, Andrew stood and took her by the arm.

At last! Tis about time he paid me some attention.
“Let us leave this merrymaking while we still have our heads on our shoulders,” he murmured as he guided her toward the entrance. “Our sovereign lord has had his eye on you for the past ten minutes, and I do not want to risk another encounter with him.”

Rosie shot him a quick look of surprise, but then covered it with a mask of cool disdain. “Whatever you wish, my lord.”

He chuckled. “‘My lord’ is it now? What happened to the name ‘Andrew’ on your lips?”

Rosie refused to allow her tender feelings for him to get in the way of her righteous anger. “Have you won your wager
now,
my lord?”

He expanded his chest. “Aye. A most enjoyable experiment.”

I am nothing but an experiment? A plague upon you, my lord!
She jutted out her chin. “So when will you pay me?”

He lifted his brow. “Ah, ever the businesswoman. I had forgotten.”

He sounded mildly annoyed, but Rosie was past caring how he felt. Since he didn’t need her anymore, she would take what he owed her and be done with the churl. In fact, the sooner she left him, the better it would be for them both. Why linger for another day or two? She knew that once he returned to his home in England he would toss her out with the rest of his rubbish. Besides, he had a wife, she reminded herself. He mumbled something that she didn’t quite hear.

“My lord?”

“I said I will give you your fee as soon as we are home,” he snapped.

Home! Ha! Yours, not mine. I have no home.

Rosie remained silent by his side until they reached his pavilion. Andrew opened the flap and ushered her inside with a flourish. Jeremy looked up from his card game with some of the potboys. A quizzical expression crossed his face. The lackeys scuttled out.

“How goes it, my lord?” He glanced from one solemn face to the other.

Andrew laughed without mirth. “The king was enchanted by my piece of work and rewarded her with a gold ring. The experience has fatigued us both.” He sent Rosie a private message with his eyes.

She pretended not to notice it, but instead, began to remove the pearls from her hair. She knew she would be lost if she allowed him to lure her into his bed once more. She swept into the back chamber and pulled the drapes closed against him. Andrew whistled through his teeth.

Rosie tore out the plaits that had held her hair and the pearls in place. Then she removed Lady Mary’s beautiful
necklace and laid it on the bed. Cursing under her breath, she fumbled with the laces that tied up the bodice of her beautiful gown. She must escape before she lost her courage to leave him. Her rebellious heart broke within her breast.

Andrew rustled the drape. “I have reckoned your wages, Rosie. You have earned seven shillings and sixpence.”

She fingered the king’s ring. With that sum and the money she could get for the royal bauble, she would be well set up to buy her own bakery stall and to rent lodgings in a decent part of London. She stroked her golden necklace. She couldn’t sell that as well. It was her one remembrance of him. Her eyes misted. She blinked away her regrets.

“I will take my money now, if you please, my lord.”

He sighed. “Do you need help changing your gown?”

She pulled the gold cords apart and wriggled out of the golden garment. “Nay, I have dressed myself all my life. I had best not grow used to your help now.” She bit her tongue and cursed the sting in her voice. Even though he had used her merely for his own purposes, he had always been kind to her.

He cleared his throat. “Very well, Rosie. I have put your coins in a small bag on the table. Your pardon but I find I am somewhat overcome with a headache and will walk about in the cool air for a while.”

Without waiting for her reply, he left. She bit her knuckles to keep herself from breaking down in tears. So this is how it was to end. A cool parting without even a kiss to remember him by. She touched her lips. The king had kissed her well, but he couldn’t hold a candle to Andrew. No one could kiss her into ecstasy as he did.

She gave herself a good shake then pulled on the
plainest gown in the pile. Since she couldn’t tie up her laces without help, she covered her open back with a light wool cloak. She would be thankful for its comfort when the cold weather came—when she was back in London. She mounded Lady Mary’s pearls in a lustrous heap and put them next to the candlestick where Andrew would be sure to find them.

Tonight Rosie would walk to Calais and board the first boat back to England on the morning tide. Thanks to her hard work, she had earned enough for her passage. After that, she would be free to do whatever she wanted. The thought left her with a heavy feeling. Drawing in a deep breath, she pulled back the drape.

Jeremy gave her a startled look. “Leaving?”

Rosie refused to be cowed by the youth, even if he was nobly born. “Aye,” she replied. She lifted the leather purse from the table. “Mine?”

The squire curled his lip. “So my lord said.”

Rosie swallowed hard. She did not want to depart with such anger in her wake. “Jeremy,” she said in a softer tone. “Please tell your master goodbye for me. I fear I am not brave enough to do it.”

He shrugged. “I knew you would bolt the minute he paid you.”

“Tis for the best. You said he would lose interest in me after he had won his wager. You spoke the truth. He will forget all about me once he has returned to his wife.”

Jeremy shook his head. “But his wife is—”

“Nay!” Rosie stopped him. “I cannot bear to hear of that lady. Fare thee well, my young lordling. You will make an excellent knight one day.”

Before he could stop her, she dashed out of the tent. Her tears fell freely down her cheeks.

* * *

Andrew wandered around the tents near his own and pondered how he could smooth Rosie’s feathers. If only he knew why she was angry!

“What ho, Andrew!” Guy called from the darkness.

Andrew gnashed his teeth. The last thing he needed now were the Cavendish brothers and their rapier wits. Brandon, Jack and Guy ambled toward him. They stank of malmsey wine.