Tori Phillips (22 page)
Authors: Lady of the Knight
Brandon threw himself to the ground at Andrew’s feet. “Basking in your success, old man?” he asked.
Jack joined him. “By the saints, I was fit to burst when the king kissed sweet Rosie.”
Guy chuckled. “Nay, you were jealous. You wanted the king to kiss you!”
Jack called him a foul name. Andrew rubbed his temples. He had lied when he told Rosie that he had a headache, but listening to much more of this sodden prattling would give him a pounding one.
“So, what is the reckoning? I have forgot the sum,” Brandon asked.
“And do you want only coin or will you accept payment in plate and jewelry?” Guy added, elbowing his brother.
“Peace!” Andrew growled. “I will take it out in your hides if you do not hold your tongues.”
Brandon rubbed the back of his neck. “How now? What has made you so somber? You should be celebrating! You are now a rich man.”
“I became that when I married my little Gwendolyn all those years ago,” Andrew murmured. He said a brief prayer for her innocent soul.
Jack hiccuped. “So—now you are richer.”
Andrew dredged up a sigh of despair. “Nay—much
poorer tonight. I have lost the wager and I fear I may have lost it all.”
The young men gaped at him. Jack burst into laughter. “Aye, my mind mistook. Twas
you
the king banished from court, not Fitzhugh.”
“The king knew,” Andrew said softly.
“What?” they chorused like schoolboys.
Andrew shook his head. “He knew that Rosie was not what she appeared to be. He marked her calluses and congratulated me.”
Guy whistled. “Tis well for you that His Grace has a sense of humor. You can keep Brandon’s money, old man. And my three sovereigns as well. This piece of tomfoolery has been worth twice as much.” He rolled in the dust and roared with laughter.
Andrew gave them a look of pure disgust. “Nay, I will not make a penny at sweet Rosie’s expense. She has been bought and sold enough.”
Jack sat up. “Aye, what about Rosie? What do you propose to do with her when we leave France? I cannot bring her home to my father.”
Brandon snorted. “Why would you want to?”
Jack drew himself up. “Rosie is my half sister. My mother died because of my father’s cruelty. I will not allow that to happen to Rosie.”
The Cavendish brothers grew still. Then Brandon spoke. “Are you jesting with us, Jackanapes?”
The boy shook his head. “Nay, ask your mother to tell you the tale, but swear to me that the secret remains with you.”
Guy exchanged looks with Brandon. “Done,” he said.
“Does Rosie know?” Brandon asked.
Jack threw a dirt clod. “Not yet. I do not know how to tell her. The news is bound to come as a surprise.”
Guy clapped him on the shoulder. “More like a shock, methinks.”
Jack looked up at Andrew. “So, what do you mean to do with my sister? Make her your mistress?” He spat out the word.
“I would marry her tomorrow, if she will have me.” Andrew gave a wry grin. “I suppose that means I must ask your permission first.”
Jack scratched his head. “Now, here’s a goodly jest! Very well, old man. As Rosie’s only male relative, I must question your intentions.”
The others laughed, but Andrew took the matter seriously. “I find I cannot go on without her, temper and all. She has a bastard’s name, but I will give her mine for life. She is the lady of my heart.”
“Amen to that!” Jack murmured.
“My lord!” Jeremy called in the darkness. “Where the devil is he?”
Andrew smiled at his squire’s muttering. He lifted his voice. “Here, maltworm! Tush! Your noise will wake the Emerickes.”
Jeremy nearly fell over a tent stake in his haste. “My lord, come quickly! Rosie has gone and methinks she means to sail for England.”
Jack leapt to his feet. “’Sblood! Run away again? If you marry her, Andrew, you will need to chain her to your wrist!”
Andrew’s heartbeat thudded against his chest. He grabbed his squire. “Which way did she go?”
The boy wet his lips. “Methinks toward Calais. I followed her a short distance and heard her ask one of Lord
Emerickes’ men-at-arms which direction it lay. Then I came straight way to find you.”
Andrew let go of Jeremy. “God’s nightshirt! Rosie will fall into Quince’s hands if I do not find her first.”
Guy got to his feet. “We will help you. Tell us what to do.”
“Go to the devil, all of you!” Andrew turned on his heel. “I will do my own wooing myself.”
Brandon called after him, “Methinks your wooing creaks and groans!”
Andrew raced through the drowsing camp. Dogs, startled out of their sleep, barked as he passed. He prayed that Rosie had not gone too far. He prayed that she had not stumbled into the wrong company. Most of all, he prayed that he could find her in the darkness. He leaptover tent pegs and skirted the embers of dying cook fires. Whenever he met a late-night wanderer, he paused and asked if they had seen her. At last, his persistence was rewarded.
“Aye,” a perimeter guard replied. “Not five minutes ago. She asked me to point out the Calais road.” He gave Andrew a reproachful look. “And she was acrying.”
The man’s words stabbed him to the heart and lifted it at the same time. Tossing the soldier a coin of some indeterminate value, Andrew redoubled his pace. The blood raced through his veins and his breath came in short gasps.
I am getting too old to go haring after a woman. From now on, I swear I will never let Rosie out of my sight.
In the light of the waning moon, he saw her plodding down the rutted road. With a surge of joy, he circled around her.
“Rosie,” he called to her softly. He didn’t want to frighten her.
She halted and tossed back the hood of her cape. The faint moonbeams turned her hair to silver. She glanced over her shoulder. “My…my lord?” she whispered. For all her determination, fear tinged her voice.
He stepped into the road a few feet in front of her. She jumped, then backed up a pace or two. “Tis only Andrew,” he said in the same tone he would use to gentle a skittish colt. “Why do you keep running away?”
Rosie hesitated, then replied, “I am looking for my place in this wide world, my lord.”
He smiled, and opened his arms to her. “Then run to me, Rosie my love, and I will take you all the way home.”
She tossed her glorious hair. “Where your wife lives?”
Her question caught him by surprise. “My wife has been dead for over a year, God rest her soul. My house is large and very empty. Come fill it with your laughter and your impossible ways.”
Rosie cocked her head. “I will be no man’s mistress, my lord.”
Andrew stepped closer to her. “Good, for I am seeking a wife.”
Her eyes grew round. “On a highway? Tis not your style.”
He chuckled. “I
set
fashion, my love, not follow it. By this time next summer, all men of good taste will be searching for their brides on the high roads and byways.” He reached for her. “What say you, Rosie? Will you take this old man as your husband? Will you trust me?”
For a heart-stopping minute she did not move, then she met his smile and took the hand that he offered. “You are not
that
old, methinks.”
He drew her to him. “I have some gray in my hair.”
She smoothed an errant lock over his ear. “Ha! I can count the silver strands on the fingers of one hand only.”
He slipped his arm around her slim waist and discovered that she was trembling. “I eat too much at dinner. I am soft around the middle.”
She rubbed his stomach. “There are some younger men I know who are much softer in their heads. My Lord Stafford for one.”
How she had hit the mark! He threw back his head and laughed at the irony of it. “Tell me true, my lady, have I won or lost this night?”
“Do you mean me?”
He hugged her and reveled in her warmth. “Do I ever say anything I do not mean?”
She patted his cheek. “You say a great many words, Andrew. In truth, I only understand half of them.”
He took her hand in his and kissed her fingers. “Then allow me the pleasure and the privilege of improving your vocabulary.”
She laid her head against his shoulder. “Twill take a lifetime.”
“Exactly!”
She looked up into his eyes. “You
did
say marriage?”
He kissed her hard. “Aye, and the sooner the better. At sunrise, I will rouse old Wolsey out of his great bed and demand a dispensation to be married at once. I am bound and determined to take you back to England as Lady Rosalind Ford. What say you to that?”
She slipped her arms around his neck. “Aye, Sir Andrew Ford, I accept your offer.”
He pulled her hard against himself. “Then let us begin now. For your first lesson, repeat after me—”
She wrinkled her nose. “Now? Here? The morning is almost upon us and in faith I am very sleepy.”
He grinned and kissed the tip of her nose. “Excellent! Repeat after me. I love you.”
“I…” She kissed a corner of his mouth. “Love…” She brushed her lips across his. “You…” With a purr in her throat, she kissed him with reckless abandon.
Andrew and Rosie did not notice the golden dawn.
Sunday, June 24, 1520—Midsummer’s Day
O
n the last day of the Field of Cloth of Gold, three momentous events took place, though later chroniclers wrote of only two.
In the midmorning, King Henry of England and King Francis of France laid the foundation stone for a chapel dedicated to Our Lady of Peace and Friendship, though both kings had no intention of keeping either peace or friendship with the other. The single dressed stone lay in the middle of the empty Val D’Or for a number of years until someone finally carted it away and used it in a wall.
At noon, under a blistering sun, His Eminence, Thomas Cardinal Wolsey, celebrated a solemn High Mass on a temporary altar set up in the tiltyard. It was attended by both kings and their courts. The Cardinal, in his worldly wisdom, granted the vast company a plenary indulgence—forgiveness for any sin that anyone might have committed during the past fortnight of feasting and frolic. During the final benediction, a large
fireworks that was to have been used during the final pageant that night was accidentally set alight. The unexpected appearance of a fiery green dragon overhead caused a great deal of confusion among the attendees.
Much later that afternoon, Brandon’s young page, Mark, reappeared in the Cavendish tent. The trembling child confessed to an insatiable curiosity about pyrotechnics. His hands were covered with gunpowder in mute testimony of his noontime activities. Once Brandon finally stopped laughing, he sternly admonished the boy never to play with fire again.
As the day drew to a close, the third important event took place. Sir Andrew Ford, resplendent in a golden doublet and a dignified codpiece, married his Lady Rosalind in a quiet ceremony conducted by Wolsey’s confessor. Jack Stafford gave his sister away in marriage— but only after he and Lady Alicia had convinced Rosie of his brotherly relationship. The beautiful bride claimed to be speechless to gain both a brother and a husband on the same day, then she spent the rest of the evening talking about it.
On Monday, June 25, the skies over the Val D’Or finally opened and drenched the Field of Cloth of Gold in a heavy rain that lasted for several days. A week of traveling across choppy seas, on flooded roads and in chill winds failed to dampen the ardor of the newlyweds. Andrew and Rosie returned to his home in Warwickshire, where they settled down to a life of wedded bliss. Rosie stopped chewing her fingernails and spent Andrew’s money on charitable causes. In the evenings, Andrew proved to be the most loving of husbands. During the day, he turned his formidable powers of concentration on his latest and most lasting obsession: the study
and experimentation of the properties and diverse uses of gunpowder.
Lord and Lady Ford lived happily—and explosively— ever after.
* * * * *
T
he Field of Cloth of Gold was the name of an historic occasion as well as the place where this event occurred. In the summer of 1520, England’s master of statecraft, Thomas Cardinal Wolsey, hosted an unprecedented meeting between the young, handsome King Henry VIII of England and the equally young, handsome King Francois I of France. From June 7 through 24, a barren bowlshaped valley on the northern coast of France located between the English-held town of Guisnes and the French town of Ardres became a stage where thousands of noblemen and their ladies from both courts tried to outglitter each other. The fortnight was a combination of a summit meeting between two leading world powers, an Olympic games, a World’s Fair, an international fashion show and a culinary showcase. In short, it was the most sumptuous camp-out in history.
King Henry’s retinue included over four thousand lords of his realm, their squires and retainers, hundreds of priests and lesser clerics, an army of potboys, grooms and lackeys as well as two thousand of the finest horses. His queen, Catherine of Aragon, was attended by one thousand members of her own household and a mere
eight hundred horses. King Francois and Queen Claude were accompanied by an equal number of courtiers and retainers. A knight, such as Sir Andrew, was allowed to bring a chaplain, eleven servants and eight horses.
The fortnight was a nonstop round of feasting, gambling, jousting, wenching, archery, wrestling and shopping from the thousands of vendors who ringed the encampment. Cockfighting, masquing and exchanging polite insults with members of the opposite court were other popular pastimes. The French introduced the English to asparagus, prunes, turkey from the New World and, it has been rumored, lemonade. The English acquainted the French with salmon and Scotch whiskey. The hens of France were kept busy providing fresh eggs. Not only were they needed by the hundreds of cooks, but by the English courtiers who rode nightly through the French camp, pelting their counterparts with eggs.
Without a doubt, the Field of Cloth of Gold was
the
party of the second millennium.
