THE HOUSE AT QUEENSHITHE occupied a whole block between Thames Street and the river. From the street, one entered a walled court; from the river, one used the private landing terrace and went up through the garden. The house itself, built of brick and timber, and boasting a tower, a large oak-paneled hall, four bay-windowed parlors overlooking the Thames, and vast expanses of glass and tiled floors, was extremely comfortable.
By comparison with other places Alys had lived, the house was modern and convenient, and Nicholas’s family made warm and pleasant company for her. But she missed her husband sorely.
Gwilym had already begun to chafe at being so long away from Wolveston, and decided to return. The night before he left, Sir Walter Fenlord and his son came to call, with Madeline; and while Alys and Gwenyth entertained her near the fireplace in the great parlor, the men talked of hunting and politics some distance away. The ladies paid little heed to them, although once, when Gwilym had drawn Sir Walter to one side and was talking earnestly with him, Alys saw Madeline stiffen, give them both a long look, and then turn away and put her nose in the air.
Alys did not see her again for several days. Nicholas had not forbidden her the court altogether, but his parents were not people who believed life centered about the activities there. They took part only when they were invited to attend a function, and since Madeline’s duties kept her in attendance on the queen, it was not until the following week, when the family were bidden to supper, that the two young women saw each other again.
“We are to take barges to Sheen tomorrow,” Madeline informed her, “and ’tis more than time, for I swear that not all the ashes in London can refresh the jakes at Westminster, the court has been here so long. We did think the king would order the remove last week, but he did not. He has been too much taken up with all the rumors regarding the young Earl of Warwick. Have all the men at Queenshithe not been talking, like everyone else?”
“Rhys and Dafydd ab Evan have spoken of them, to be sure,” Alys said. “Gwilym left for Wolveston the day after your visit. Did you not know?”
Madeline’s face fell, but she recovered at once and said airily, “I do not care what that man does. Marry, I had thought at one time he meant to join the host of others begging for my hand, but evidently he had the good sense to decide against it.”
“Marry you? Gwilym?” Though Alys had Nicholas’s assurance that that was Gwilym’s exact intention, she still had her doubts.
“I saw him talking to my father that night at Queenshithe,” Madeline said, “and I have seen other such conversations before, you know. In general, they do herald a request for my hand.”
“Did your father tell you Gwilym had made such a request?”
“No, but I think he would not believe him suitable. He must want a more indulgent man to marry me. Moreover, I do believe he is beginning at last to believe I want no part of marriage.”
Alys shook her head in amusement. “Madeline, I have seen how you flirt with Gwilym! And two minutes ago, when I said he had gone, you were upset. Confess now, you do care for him.”
Madeline lifted her chin. “He is different from other men, that is all—more exasperating, if you must know. Why, I never knew another who made no attempt to please me. Only look at the difference between him and the men of the court! I did think once that he cared, a little, but I must have been wrong, and now, when he has the opportunity to know me better, he leaves! So you must not think I have changed my mind about husbands, Alys. Only look at what happens to one! Here are you, in train with your husband’s family, and no husband. Where is he now?”
“Gone hunting those who would make mischief for Henry Tudor in Somerset,” Alys said.
“And when will he return?”
“I do not know.”
“Well, there you are.”
Alys could not debate the matter, for she missed Nicholas very much. He did not return to London for nearly three weeks, and when he did return, it was mid-February, the king’s great council was in session, and Alys was feeling unattractive and too fat for her clothes.
The rumors regarding the whereabouts of the young Earl of Warwick had multiplied so that one of the first decisions of the council had been to parade the boy before the populace, to prove that he was indeed still an inmate of the Tower. Alys had not been allowed to view the procession because of her condition, and when it was over she wondered what purpose it could have served.
“How can it help?” she demanded of Nicholas at supper with his family afterward. “Scarcely anyone in the crowd can claim to know Neddie. They know only that the king says he is Warwick.”
“True enough, but the parade accomplished one thing we did not expect,” he said in a tone that warned her she would not like what he said next. “Lincoln has fled the city.”
His announcement startled everyone at the table.
“Where did he go?” Rhys demanded.
“Why would he go?” Gwenyth asked.
“He goes to join rebels in Flanders, I believe,” Nicholas said, watching Alys. “It is clear now that whatever they meant to accomplish with the rumors about Warwick, Lincoln is the true pretender. ’Tis thought he goes now to lead them, to claim the crown unto himself. I should hate,” he added, looking at Alys grimly, “to think that you knew aught of these plans before now.”
“But how could she?” his mother asked gently. “The poor girl has scarce stirred from this house in a month’s time.”
Alys was shaking her head. “I cannot believe it,” she said. “Lincoln has never shown any interest in the crown.”
“He was Richard the Third’s heir,” Nicholas reminded her.
“Oh yes, named when Richard’s own son died, but no one, including Lincoln himself, expected him to inherit. Even the Tudor saw no need to lock him up. Lincoln is not a man to rally others or commit himself to causes. He … he sidesteps them.”
Nicholas shrugged. “He is not sidestepping this one. And, what is more, he seems to have some important backers. The queen dowager has this day forfeited her dower rights again and withdrawn across the Thames, to the abbey at Bermondsey.”
This announcement brought more cries of astonishment from his audience. Bewildered, Alys said, “Are you telling us the Tudor took back her dower lands and banished her from court?”
“Aye,” he said, adding pointedly, “and on the very eve of Lincoln’s flight.”
She shook her head again. “That makes no sense at all, sir. Elizabeth Woodville would never support her husband’s nephew’s claim against that of her own daughter and grandson!”
“Nevertheless, the dowager queen has been plotting. I do not know the details, except it is said she did receive letters from the conspirators—at Christmas.” His gaze was stern.
Alys flushed but was careful to hide her consternation from the rest of the family. If Davy Hawkins had visited Westminster chiefly in order to deliver letters to the dowager queen, it was easier to understand why Lovell had made the effort then to write to her. Had Davy been caught, he had only to say he had come to visit his sister and Alys, and they would have supported that declaration. She said quietly, “I still cannot credit it, sir.”
“As to that, ’tis rumor only,” he replied in the same tone, “but not the part that took place today. Lincoln is headed for his father’s lands in East Anglia, where he can easily get a boat for Flanders. His father, the Duke of Suffolk, is still loyal to the king, and Harry wants to keep it that way, so I go to East Anglia in two days’ time.” He looked ruefully at Alys. “’Tis to be a show of force only; we won’t catch Lincoln. Harry means to follow us soon—to begin a second spring progress at mid-Lent, like last year’s—but I’ll be back before the child is born.”
His mother cried out in dismay, but Alys was silent. She had lived her life watching men ride off to their duty while women remained at home to await their return. Listening to Nicholas placate Gwenyth, then go on to discuss details of other news from court with his father and younger brother, she felt only sadness that he would leave again so soon. She understood, she thought, her mother-in-law’s consternation, for Gwenyth’s husband and at least one son were content to remain at home with her, to oversee their farms and tenants, to look after their own. Nicholas was different, a soldier first, a husband only because he had deserved reward for service to his liege lord.
Nicholas did not care for the land the way his father did, nor even the way that Gwilym did. And, though he found pleasure in his wife’s company, he did not care for her the same way his father cared for Gwenyth. She watched Dafydd ab Evan whenever he spoke to his wife, and she longed to see that same deeply tender look in Nicholas’s eyes when he looked at her. She had seen kindness and laughter, exasperation and anger, and certainly lust, but never that same sweet unspoken tenderness.
There was naught she could complain of in his behavior while he remained at Queenshithe, for he was attentive and kind. He even played his lute and sang to her when she could not sleep; but he showed no interest in bedding her after his first night home—for which she blamed her ballooning figure—and his kindness was casual and easygoing, rather than lovingly tender.
In the weeks following his departure, she had several letters from him but little news of what was happening in the counties. And in London, there were more rumors regarding the Earl of Warwick. Notwithstanding the fact that Neddie had been paraded through the streets, many still insisted that he had escaped and meant to lead an armed invasion from Flanders, backed by his aunt, Margaret of Burgundy.
Despite the rumors, Madeline reported a relaxed atmosphere at Sheen, lasting into Lent. And despite the king’s intent to show strength on his progress—and thus, deter strife—with a large, well-armed retinue composed mostly of gentlemen from Lancashire, the comments at court, according to Madeline, had more to do with the comeliness of the women in East Anglia than with any possibility of rebellion there. She had even overheard one stout courtier tell another that he believed they could drink Norwich as dry as they had left York the previous Easter.
When the men had gone, Madeline visited the house at Queenshithe as soon as she could manage to do so, and informed Alys with a long-suffering sigh that the court had become entirely too restless. “Of those left behind, nearly all are women,” she said, “and Elizabeth, who is perfectly healthy this year, chafes at being left at Sheen, although the king did assure her that he left her only because he feared for her safety.”
Alys, remembering something Nicholas had said, wondered if it were not more likely that Henry wanted to make this show of strength on his own account and not remind anyone that his position was any the stronger because of his marriage. “What rumors are there?” she asked, not really wanting to discuss Elizabeth. “What do they say at court now about Neddie?”
“That he is in Ireland,” Madeline said with a chuckle, “stirring up the Irish. Marry, but most people do discount the talk. They fear instead that Lincoln will lead an invasion. A grown man, they say, backed by Margaret of Burgundy, is a much more serious threat to Henry than any boy could be. Questions are asked, too, about why Henry seems so loath to crown his wife. And some even suggest that Warwick is dead but that Edward Plantagenet or his brother Richard is living now in Burgundy.”
Alys seized on the safest topic. “Lincoln is not a man to lead armies, Madeline. You have met him.”
“Aye,” Madeline said, smiling. “When he asked me to dance, he said, ‘If there be space enough, mayhap you will dance with me.’ Marry, he is a careful man, but my father said that with Richard for an uncle, it paid him to be careful. And you must know that the king has ordered beacons set up along the coast. That sounds as if he believes Lincoln is a threat.”
Alys could only agree that it did. Not long after that it became known that Henry had ordered his uncle, Jasper Tudor, and the Earl of Oxford to gather forces and prepare for invasion from both Flanders and Ireland. And once more, the papal bull was read throughout the land, recognizing Henry’s marriage and his right to the crown, and cursing with bell, book, and candle all who did anything contrary to his right and titles. But by then, Alys was past caring about politics, for the pangs of her labor had begun, a fortnight before they were expected.
Gwenyth and Jonet were in attendance with several maids, and Ian was sent in haste for a royal physician, whom Elizabeth, in her graciousness, had recommended to attend the lying-in. Alys, who had never known such pain as she was feeling with each new contraction, called down every curse she could think of upon Nicholas, both for getting her into such a predicament and for leaving her to suffer it alone, but the pain was ended at last, and to her extreme astonishment, she had not one child, but two, the first a bouncing baby girl, the second a tiny boy.
She stared at the two small bundles presented by Jonet for her inspection. One was screaming lustily; the other watched her quietly through his wide blue eyes.
When the doctor, a somber, untalkative man, had gone at last, Jonet said in a tone carefully devoid of expression, “We had better send at once for a priest to christen them, mistress.”
“Oh, tomorrow or the next day will do for that,” Alys said, reaching out to touch first one tiny face and then the other.
Gwenyth said, “Do you not know what you mean to call them, my dear? You and Nicholas ought to have discussed the matter before he left. ’Tis most important.”
“Aye, but he did say he would return before their birth,” Alys said. She knew he wanted to name his son after the king, but she had not agreed, and now, looking at the small, quiet baby, she knew she could never agree to call him Henry. Firmly, she said, “I shall call them Anne and Richard.”
There was silence, but to her surprise, no one debated her choices. She looked up then, and caught an exchange of looks between Jonet and Gwenyth that sent a chill sweeping through her. “What is it? Why do you look like that?”
Both women hastened to reassure her, telling her she should sleep, that wet nurses were at hand to look after the babes.
“I want to see them both. Every inch! Unwrap them.”
After brief hesitation, they did as she asked, and she could find nothing wrong with either child. Anne, though small, had fuzzy light hair and was pink and bright-eyed. Her tiny limbs waved, and her cries were strong and lusty. The little boy was not so pink, but he moved his arms and legs, and had all his fingers and toes. She stroked one of his thin arms, pleased when he seemed to look in her direction.
“Wee Dickon,” she said to him softly, “you will grow.”
Firmly, Jonet took both babies and gave them into the care of their nurses, insisting that Alys sleep. And finally, she did, but when she awoke, she demanded to see the children at once. Once again, Jonet was unnaturally hesitant.
“They need their rest, mistress,” she said gently.
“Fetch them,” Alys commanded.
Small Anne was awake and cooing, but Dickon slept, not waking even when Alys held him and tickled his cheek.
“What is wrong with him?” she demanded.
“We do not know,” Jonet whispered. “He will not feed. He does wake from time to time, but in between, we cannot wake him.”
“Bring his cradle here, and put it beside my bed. I will keep him with me. He will thrive then. I know it!”
“Tha’ mustn’t,” Jonet said. “Let me take him now.”
But Alys refused, tears spilling down her cheeks. And all that day she held the little boy, her heart gladdening when his eyes opened, her tears falling harder and faster when they shut again. Gwenyth added her entreaties to those of Jonet’s, but Alys would not let them take the baby. And when Madeline, summoned from Sheen in the hope she might soothe her, added her arguments to theirs, Alys lost her temper.
“He is my son! He will stay with me. Fetch the physician if you want to help us. I do not know why he does not come.”
Gwenyth said sympathetically, “He will come, my dear, but he has already seen the baby, and he tells us there is naught he can do if the child will not feed.”
“Then get another wet nurse, or I will suckle him myself.” But though she tried, the baby would not suck. They soaked a sugar tit in breast milk, and held it in his mouth, but even then he did not respond.
Finally, Alys sent them all away, becoming hysterical when they were reluctant to obey her. She settled against her pillows with wee Dickon nestled in her arms, fighting sleep when it would come, fearing that if she slept the baby would die.
When the door to the bedchamber opened, she snapped without looking up from her charge, “Get out. I will hear no more of your foolish prattle. Dickon will stay with me.”
“I have come to see my son, and he is not going to be called Dickon, but Henry Arthur, to please our king.”
She looked up then, sharply, and cried ecstatically, and with overwhelming relief, “Nicholas, you are here! Oh, Nicholas, they say he will die. He cannot. He must not!”
Nicholas moved to stand beside the bed, looking down at the two of them. His face was white, and she realized that the others had already told him what to expect. “Let me hold him,” he said, and his voice was tight.
“You will not take him away from me!”
“No. Move over.” He sat on the bed beside her, plumping pillows behind himself before he took the tiny, silent bundle from her. “I have sent for a priest,” he said.
“No!”
“He must be christened, sweetheart. The lass too.”
“I will not have my son named after the Tudor.”
“He is my son, too, Alys.”
A rap at the door announced the priest, and she knew then that Nicholas had been in the house longer than she had thought. She looked at him accusingly and with despair, and he put his free arm around her shoulders, drawing her close.
Anne was brought in by her nurse, and when the family and Madeline had joined them, the priest began the brief ceremony. When, with a hand poised over the little boy’s head, he asked, “Who names this child,” Rhys, standing godfather, said, “I do.”
Alys gazed bleakly at Nicholas.
He looked back at her with understanding, and the tenderness in his eyes that she had longed to see there, and said quietly, “There has been a change, Father. He is to be called Richard ap Nicholas ap Dafydd of the Welsh house of Merion.”
The priest nodded, and Rhys repeated the names without comment. When it came time to name the little girl, Madeline, who was to stand her godmother, looked at Nicholas. “Is her name to be in the Welsh fashion, too, Sir Nicholas?”
He looked at Alys and smiled. “One Welsh lad, and one English wench—is that not the way, sweetheart? I have no objection to calling her Anne. What say you to Anne Madeline?”
Alys looked past Madeline’s pleased smile to see Gwenyth nodding in agreement, and said, “We will use three names, if you please, sir, for I do favor Anne Madeline Gwenyth.”
“A large name for a child,” Nicholas said, “but so be it.”
The ceremony, without the usual trappings and long service, was soon over. When the others were leaving, Jonet bent over the little boy, still asleep in his father’s arms. “I ought to take him to the nursery now, sir.”
Before Alys could protest, Nicholas said, “We will keep him with us. Bring my lady wife some food, if you will. I think she has not eaten as she should. She must restore her strength.”
They took turns eating, so that one of them might hold the baby, and when the afternoon turned into evening, Nicholas got out his lute and played for them. Alys was exhausted, and while he played, her eyelids grew so heavy, she could no longer keep them open. The bundle in her arms was so light that when Nicholas took the baby from her she did not notice.
When she awoke, she missed Dickon instantly, and sat up in a panic. The room was dark except for the glow of firelight from the hearth, and above the crackling of the fire, she could hear music, a low humming sound. Nicholas was sitting in a chair beside the fire, hunched over, singing softly to their child.
Slipping out of bed, she crept nearer, not wanting him to stop, but he saw her. When he looked up, she saw the pain in his eyes and the tears on his cheeks, and she knew before he spoke what he would say.
“He is gone, sweetheart, only moments ago. I … I thought he might still hear me, so I did not stop the singing.”
Crying out in anguish, she collapsed to her knees by his chair, put her arms protectively around the still bundle in his lap, and gave way to her grief.
Nicholas let her weep until Jonet, coming in silently a few minutes later, took the dead child away to prepare it for burial. Then Nicholas got up and lifted Alys from the floor, cradling her in his arms and carrying her to bed. He was crying again by then, too, and he crawled into the bed with her, boots and all, and drew the quilt up to cover them, holding her tightly until they both fell, exhausted, to sleep.
When Alys awoke, he was still holding her, and he was awake, watching her, his eyes red-rimmed, his face gray with sorrow.
She said the first words that came to her, without thought. “I never thought to see you weep.”
“I am not made of stone, sweetheart.”
Her own tears welled again and spilled down her cheeks. “I lost your son, Nicholas. How can you ever forgive me?”
He said steadily, “It was not your doing, my love, but the will of God. There will be other sons—and daughters, too, may heaven help me. That is better—a smile, albeit a watery one.”
“There is little to smile about, but I am glad you came.”
“I wanted to come before, but Henry demanded as great a show of force as we could muster till we left East Anglia behind. I left him at Huntingdon. He goes to Coventry, where he wants the queen and Lady Margaret to join him at Kenilworth Castle.”
“You must leave again!” She would not beg him to stay, much as she wanted him to. She could not expect him to heed her needs when his king made demands of him, but she could not stem her tears. They ran down her face to her neck, into her bed gown.
Nicholas tried to mop them away with the edge of the quilt. “My handkerchief is sodden, sweetheart, so you must make do with this, but do not weep. ’Tis Hugh who goes with the queen. It will mean postponing his wedding, too, for as soon as you are fit to travel, I mean to take you and our daughter to Wolveston, and I doubt that Jonet will let the pair of you go without her.”
“You would take us yourself?” She was not anxious to leave, but neither was she much interested in staying in London or in going with the queen, especially if Elizabeth moved to Kenilworth and took Arthur with her. Thinking of the royal prince brought a fresh rush of tears, and Nicholas responded with dismay.
“You weep at the thought that I will take you myself! Would you prefer that I send Hugh with you?”
“No, no.” She tried to explain that she was glad he was going with them, but was surprised as well.
“I thought you would object to going at all just now,” he said, “but there are things about to happen in this country, and I would as lief you and wee Anne were well away from the court and safe at Wolveston with Gwilym and a host of armed men to protect you. My father wants to return to Merion Court soon.”
“Will you stay at Wolveston with us?”
“As long as I am able, sweetheart.”
“Good, for it grows lonely there without you.”
“It will not be lonely this time,” he said. “I mean to take Madeline Fenlord with us.”
She was grateful. “I hope her father will allow it.”
“He will. Can you keep a secret, sweetheart? Gwilym means to have her, just as I said he would, and he has received her father’s blessing, if he can only get the wench to agree.”
“Then she was right! But she thought Sir Walter had refused him.” She explained that Madeline had seen the two men talking, and had suspected the subject of their discussion. “She thinks her father looks for a more indulgent husband for her, not one who is interested only in her fortune.”
Nicholas smiled. “’Tis not only the fortune, sweetheart. Gwilym said he knew he had strong feelings for the wench the instant one of Everingham’s men dared to touch her, but he said, too, that she must come to want him as much as he wants her. She has been too much indulged to appreciate a husband, he said, and he cannot go through life with a wife he must coax and coddle. His chances look dim at the moment, but I believe his patience will prevail, and in any event, a few skirmishes between the two will make life at Wolveston more interesting for the rest of us.”
Alys could not doubt that, and when the time came to leave London, found herself looking forward to the journey with more interest than might otherwise have been expected. The bleak sadness she felt at seeing her tiny son laid to rest was a little compensated by the joy she felt each time she held Anne in her arms or watched her sleeping in her cradle, and when the great gray castle on the hill first came into sight, she experienced a sense of homecoming that she had never felt before. Wolveston was her home now, more than it had ever been, for she had been the one to set the house in order, and she could even take pride in the freshly plowed fields they passed as they made their way up the hill, and admire the new lambs in the green pastures.
The journey had been slow, for the baby, her nurse, and at times even Alys herself, had traveled in a litter, but today Alys was riding beside her husband, with Jonet, Elva, and Madeline riding behind them. Glancing at Nicholas, astride Black Wyvern beside her, Alys saw a look of pleasure in his eyes, and when he turned toward her, he was smiling.
“It is a fine place,” he said, “especially in the spring with the hills so green—like Wales.”
“Would you rather it were in Wales?” she asked.
“No, sweetheart. In Wales, it would soon be cut up in parcels, for my sons and their sons. ’Tis better here, where it can stay as it is to support all who dwell within its borders.”
“Mayhap the king will change England to make it more like Wales,” she said.
“He is more like to change Wales. The English way leads to power and stability, the Welsh to parcels and dissension. Then, too, men who struggle to make a small holding feed and clothe many dependents cannot provide men-at-arms for their king. But there is Gwilym now, coming across the courtyard to greet us.”
In the bustle that followed, while they dismounted, servants came from within to attend the sumpter ponies and to assist the nurse with the baby. Alys watched Gwilym but could detect no difference in his attitude toward Madeline, and she began to suspect again that Nicholas must be mistaken. Madeline seemed to be oblivious to Gwilym, but Alys was not fooled. Madeline cared, but if the man truly wished to wed her, Alys thought he would have to show at least a modicum of interest, or else Madeline would remain obdurate if only to prove she knew her own mind. At the moment, she might have been air for all the heed he paid her.
“A good journey?” he asked Nicholas, seeming not to notice when Madeline, in passing, carelessly trod upon his foot.
Nicholas grinned at him but replied casually, “Aye, not a sign of invasion or rebellion did we see.”
“’Tis quiet enough,” Gwilym said. “We shall be safe here, I think, despite the rumors. You’ll want to look over the place.”
Nicholas did, and for the next fortnight, he enjoyed being lord of the manor and spent his days riding with Gwilym, visiting the villages and the tenantry. Sometimes Alys and Madeline rode with them, and as the days passed, Alys noted that Mistress Fenlord was beginning to take greater offense at being ignored.
“He is worse than ever,” Madeline said with a sigh, as she and Alys watched Gwilym and Nicholas show a pair of small boys how to nock arrows to bows that were nearly too long for them. “He is as like to walk past a lady as to wish her a good day.”
“Goodness, do you wish him to speak to you?” Alys chuckled.
“It is of no significance to me,” Madeline said, lifting her chin. “He can have nothing of interest to say. Why is he giving that child a coin? It is for Sir Nicholas to reward his tenants’ children if he sees fit to do so. Will he not take offense?”
“Not Nicholas,” Alys said. “Gwilym gives a coin to every boy he sees practicing, believing that soon the men-at-arms from Wolveston will be amongst the finest in the land, and Nicholas approves. He says Gwilym always knows exactly what he is doing.” She could not repeat all that Nicholas had said, for she had promised not to do so, but she saw Madeline stiffen alertly at her last sentence, and hoped she would take warning.
Gwilym had ceased to criticize, or to note her clumsiness, which seemed to Alys to have increased since their arrival, but more than once Alys had seen the Welshman’s jaw tighten at some bit of carelessness or an ill-chosen word. She had surprised a look of amusement in his eyes once also, and once, when Madeline had scraped her arm through her clumsiness, a look of tenderness. Alys did not think he would remain impassive much longer, and two days later, when Madeline, having helped her wash her hair by the great-hall fire, suddenly took it upon herself to carry away the rinse basin instead of calling a servant to attend to it, Alys, warned by her expression that she had mischief in mind, watched with amused trepidation to see what would happen.
Nicholas and Gwilym were sitting comfortably at the other end of the hearth, absorbed in a game of Tables. Neither had paid the least heed to several conversational gambits made by the women, and Alys had hidden more than one smile at hearing Madeline raise her voice in a clear attempt to elicit at least a comment in return, but the men’s concentration on the roll of their dice and the movement of their tiles was too great.
Jonet, wrapping a towel around Alys’s head, said quickly, “You need not carry that basin, mistress. Call a ser—” She broke off with a gasp when Madeline tripped, seemingly over her own feet, and threw the entire basin of water over Gwilym.
He leapt up, sputtering, and Madeline said, “I am so sorry, sir. You must forgive my clumsiness.”
He replied as calmly as though he were not dripping all over the hearth, “Such carelessness, madam, is something that we shall discuss at painful length if it persists after we are wed.”
“Wed? How dare you, sir! I have never said I would marry you, nor shall I ever do so.”
“We shall see. I cannot understand why your father allowed you to make such a game of a simple matter. Your consent is not needed, only his, and that I have, sweet vixen, in writing. I had hoped you would know your own mind before you learned that fact, but since you persist in denying your feelings whilst you flirt like a spoiled child demanding attention, I’ve decided that as soon as Hugh Gower arrives to marry Mistress Hawkins, we, too, will be wed. ’Twill save us all the bother of two ceremonies.”
“Oh,” Madeline cried, “of all the—” Swiftly her hand came up and she slapped him, hard.
Gwilym made no attempt to evade the blow, but afterward he said grimly, “Do not ever do that again, mistress, unless you want to be soundly cuffed in return.”
“But you never even asked me!” she cried, arms akimbo.
“I told you, asking is unnecessary. You’ve enjoyed yourself very much, tossing suitors to the right-about like so many discarded gowns. It has become such a habit with you that you do not even pause anymore to look them over beforehand, or to search your own feelings. Thus, I did not ask. And thus, my love, when Hugh Gower arrives, we shall be married, without argument.”
“Never!” she cried, raising her hand again, then swiftly snatching it back and putting it behind her. Leaning forward, she put her flushed face close to his pale one. “I will never marry you or any man. You don’t even care about me!”
“We will discuss that subject in private,” Gwilym said, scooping her up into his arms and bearing her from the room.
Not much to Alys’s surprise, though Madeline kicked, there was less fury than frustration in her ranting; and when they met later, she was subdued and did not want to talk, but she glowed. Her mood changed daily after that, however, and Alys, certain that her friend wanted nothing so much as to marry Gwilym, came to agree with him that she was simply too proud to admit it. As a result, Madeline worked herself into such a state that when Hugh Gower strode unannounced into the great hall the following Wednesday, she fainted dead away at the sight of him.