ALYS SCARCELY HEARD WHAT Sir Nicholas said to Hugh when he came, but when she realized that Sir Nicholas was taking her away from the tent, she struggled wildly to free herself, terrified about Jonet’s illness, but it did her no good. She even tried to pull his sword from its scabbard, thinking she could force him to release her, but the sword was too long, too unwieldy. He did not even attempt to stop her from tugging at it but carried her quickly to another tent, where he set her abruptly on her feet. When he turned to leave, she grabbed his mail-clad arm. “Wait! Don’t leave me here. I must be with her.”
“You will not,” he snapped. “You are still weak from your own illness, and for all I know, you can get it again, from her. I will send someone for the herb woman, but you are not to go near Mistress Hawkins. If I must, I will set one of the men to guard you to see that you do not leave this tent. Do you understand?”
Tears spilled down her cheeks. “You cannot do this. Jonet will die. She is exhausted from looking after me, so she cannot fight the sickness. I must help her.”
She thought she saw compassion in his eyes and hoped he would relent, but his voice was hard when he said, “Then you pray for her, mistress, for only God can help her now. There is a prie-dieu yonder.” When she opened her mouth to argue, he added implacably, “You might give thanks first that I have no time right now to discuss your defiance of my orders. Just how did you propose to dry your hair?”
She raised a hand to the towel still wrapped around her head. In her agitation over Jonet she had forgotten her wet hair. Frustrated but wary, she bit her lip and fell silent.
Sir Nicholas glanced around the dimly lit tent. It was smaller and more Spartan than the one she had occupied with Jonet, lacking such luxuries as a washstand, stool, and thick pallets. And although it was warm from the sunlight outside, there was no place to sit but upon the prie-dieu or the ground. He said, “I will send one of the lads to help you.”
“I can do it myself,” she muttered, “outside in the sun. I will just get my brush from the other t—”
“No.”
“But—”
“I will send Tom back with your brush. You find a place near the cook fires where you are in plain sight. And you had best have that tunic off before you go. It is wet.”
Her arms snapped protectively across her breasts. “No!”
A glint of amusement lit his eyes. “I see. Tom will bring some of your things over. See that you are decently clad before you step outside, mi geneth.” He was gone.
Her bosom swelled with resentment before memory of Jonet’s illness swept over her again and the sobs came, wracking her body. She sank to the floor, giving way to a despair she had not felt since Anne’s passing. All her life it had been Jonet upon whom she depended, Jonet to whom she had gone as a child when she had hurt herself or been punished for her misdeeds. Jonet had wiped her tears and tended her hurts, bathed her, dressed her, and heard her prayers after tucking her into her cot at night. And now Jonet would die, for the sickness was terrible. She knew as much from her own experience. Though she was young and strong and rarely ill, she had nearly died. Jonet was old—well past thirty—and weak from worry. Jonet’s death would be her fault, for not only had she pushed her to journey in a single day from Drufield to Wolveston through the dreadful rain, but then she had fallen ill, and Jonet had neglected herself to care for her.
Alys was still sobbing when Ian entered, carrying an armful of her belongings. “He ha’ sent Tom for the herb wooman,” he said, and when she did not reply, he stood for a moment, watching her, before he said, “Shall I gang awa’ again, mistress?”
She struggled to control herself. “No, this towel is soaked through, and so is my bodice. I must put something else on, and I must dry my hair. He will blame you if I become ill again.”
“Nay, mistress, he willna,” Ian said. “He did say he kens weel it were nane o’ my doing. He’s a fair mon, is the master.”
She looked at him. “You like him.” When Ian nodded, she sniffed and said, “Well, I like him, too, when he is not being as stubborn as a”—She hesitated, because the saying was as stubborn as a Scotsman, and that would not do—“as any other Welshman,” she ended, eyeing him apologetically.
Ian smiled. “There disna be a Welshman breathing who’s as stubborn as me auld dad, mistress. Master did find yer comb and brush,” he added, holding the articles out to her before he set her bundles down. “He said I wasna tae linger.”
Taking the boar’s-bristle brush and tortoiseshell comb, she forced herself to ask the question, “How fares Mistress Hawkins?”
“They canna wake her,” Ian said gently.
Dropping comb and brush, Alys rubbed the tears from her cheeks, jumped to her feet, and rushed to the opening.
Ian barred her way. “You canna gae to her, mistress. I’m tae stop you, an you try.”
She stared desperately up at him, making no attempt now to stem her tears. “I must.”
“Nay, ye mustna. Goorthfan Gower’s looking after ’er.”
She blinked, bewildered. “Who?”
Ian flushed. “That’s how it sounds when yon Welshmen say his name, mistress, though I niver heard the like, m’self. The big ’un. I ha’ heard Mistress Hawkins call him Hugh Gower, which be a sight easier tae say, but I darena call him so. She disna fancy him, but he did say he’d look after her at least till the herb wooman cooms, and belike till we depart, wi’ the dawnin’.”
“At dawn?” Alys was dismayed. “We cannot leave her!”
“Master said—”
“Fetch him!”
“But—”
“Do not argue, Ian. Fetch him. Now.” She yanked the damp towel from her head, letting the sodden mass of hair fall to her hips. Lifting her chin as she shoved wet strands back over her shoulders with her free hand, she said, “You tell him that not a step will I take outside this tent until I do speak with him. If I die of an ague through not getting out into the sun to dry my hair, the blame will rest squarely upon his shoulders.”
Ian left at once, and Alys paced the floor impatiently. There were no more tears. Crying would not help. She needed her wits about her if she was to convince Sir Nicholas to stay.
He came at once, and his mood was clearly precarious, for he was frowning and the first words out of his mouth were curtly spoken. “What is it? Why are you not yet out drying your hair? The sun will soon be too low to do you any good.”
“There is a breeze,” she told him. “My hair will dry.” Then, drawing a long breath, she said firmly, “Sir Nicholas, Ian tells me that you have decided we are to depart tomorrow. I have not yet regained my full strength, and in any case, I cannot possibly leave with Jonet still so ill.”
His mouth tightened. “We must go. The king will be in London by now and expects my lads to be close behind him. We are already days late leaving, and as it is, your state of health will prevent our traveling as rapidly as I should like.”
“But we cannot leave her! Who will look after her?”
“The herb woman will care for her. We cannot take her, my lady. She would carry the infection wherever we go.”
“I will not go without her, Sir Nicholas.”
“I have explained that you have no choice. The king—”
“I do not care a rap for your Tudor usurper. I love Jonet!”
“I can make allowance for your affection,” he said sternly, “but I warn you, have a care for how you speak of the king.”
“Why?” she cried, unable to stem her tears any longer. “Will you execute me for treason when I tell you I hate him?”
“Nage, mi geneth,” he said more gently, “but ’tis a habit too dangerous for me to allow you to indulge yourself in it.”
“I do not know how you will stop me!” Dashing a hand across her eyes in an ineffective attempt to clear her vision, she added fiercely, “I won’t let you take me from her!”
Still blinded by tears, she did not see him move toward her, was not aware that he had done so until his hands came to rest upon her shoulders. Then, certain he meant to shake her, she braced herself, but he did not. Instead he did nothing at all for so long that she became aware of the warmth of his hands on her shoulders, the nearness of his large body to hers. Her breath caught in her throat, and her tears ceased.
The silence lengthened. She could smell the leather of his brigandine and hear muted sounds from the men outside, sounds that soon faded until she heard only his breathing. His hands tightened. She licked suddenly dry lips, and her hands moved of their own accord to his chest, where she felt the small, overlapping metal plates beneath the outer covering of his brigandine. A memory stirred of Neddie, expounding upon new-learned knowledge, trying to explain why the plates overlapped upward instead of downward—something to do with the way a man’s chest was formed—but Sir Nicholas’s chest, hard beneath her palms, was entirely too close to allow her mind to catch the fleeting memory. He still did not move or speak.
She darted a glance at his face and found his expression puzzling, for he was looking at her almost as though he had never seen her before. His lips were parted; his eyes, like deep-set dark gray pools in the dim light of the tent, had lost their harshness. But as the thought crossed her mind that he must be at a loss for what to say to her, he shifted his weight and the flintlike expression returned. Briefly, his grip on her shoulders tightened, bruising her; then she was free.
He said, “There is no point to continuing this conversation, for I must obey my king’s orders just as you must obey mine. Mistress Hawkins will remain behind. Has she family hereabouts?”
Alys nearly mentioned Davy, then remembering with regret that Sir Nicholas was the enemy, and the Tudor’s own man, she realized that she could not do so. “Her sister Mary lives in Doncaster, I think,” she said gruffly.
“Then we will arrange with the Bawtry monks to get word to her. That must suffice.” And with that, he was gone, leaving her to stare after him in dismay. Jonet’s sister was older. What if she had died? What if she was away or just could not come? And who would care for Jonet till Mary came? But she had no power over him. Though he had clearly weakened in those few brief seconds, she had no idea why he had done so, and it did not matter, anyway, because he had recollected himself all too soon.
She had to think, and the best way she could imagine to do so at the moment was to proceed with drying her hair. Removing the wet bodice, she found a simple red woolen loose gown in one of the bundles and slipped it over her head. Tying the ties at the neckline, she fastened a colorful tapestry bodice over it, lacing and tying it at the waist with gold cording. There was no need for girdle or belt, and the day was warm enough so that she needed no other wrap.
Outside, she found a sheltered place to sit near the cook fires, settled herself, and began to draw her brush slowly and carefully, as she had been taught, through her tangled, damp tresses. It was a tedious, difficult procedure, one she was accustomed to having someone else—usually Jonet—do for her, and soon her right arm was too tired to wield the brush. She rested it in her lap and wondered what on earth she would do on the journey, not to mention in London, without Jonet.
The breeze was gentle. It scarcely stirred her wet hair. She raised her brush again, not caring now about the new tears wetting her cheeks. She tried changing hands, attempting to brush with her left, but it was not even as strong as the right. After three strokes, she quit in frustration.
“Give me the brush, mi geneth,” Sir Nicholas said gently behind her, “or it will never be dry.”
She looked up in surprise. He had changed out of his mail chausses into tawny hose and leather buskins, but he still wore his brigandine, and though he had removed his sword and baldric, his dagger was suspended through a metal ring at the brigandine’s waist. Wordlessly, she handed him the brush, and if he was not as efficient as Jonet, he was stronger, and he made little work of drawing the brush through her long hair. She was certain he must have things he would rather be doing, but when she suggested that one of his men might replace him at the task, his response was brief, spoken with a curtness she had come to recognize as his way of saying he did not want to discuss the matter.
Her hair was still damp when the evening meal was served, but the night was warm, and she did not fear catching a chill. Before she retired to her bed, she plaited the tresses as Jonet always had, and if the job was not as neat, at least it was done. Alone in the empty tent, she listened to the sounds of the men in the camp, prayed for Jonet, and racked her brain for a way to convince Sir Nicholas to stay at Wolveston until Jonet was well or, God forbid, until she died; but, when morning came, Alys had not even thought of a way to convince him to let her see Jonet.
The camp awoke earlier than usual. Sir Nicholas wanted to be away by dawn’s light, and at that time of year, the dawn came almost on the heels of the dark. There was a fog, but he made it clear that he had no intention of allowing it to delay him.
Alys had no immediate chance to debate his decision with him, for he sent his squire and Ian to wake her.
“How fares Mistress Hawkins?” she demanded, sitting up and clutching the covering close about her.
“She still lives, mistress,” Tom said.
“Then I would see her,” Alys told him. “I’ll go at once.”
Ian said, “Nay, mistress, the master ha’ said you mun be ready when the others be, or he’ll coom hisself tae dress you.”
She did not doubt him, but the thought of simply riding off and leaving Jonet was nearly too much to bear. “I do not know how I shall get on without her,” she said, choking back tears.
Tom stammered, “Meistr knows you be not accustomed to looking after yourself, m’lady, and he did say we are to help you as much as you do let us—Ian and me—even though you be not accustomed to menservants in and out, like most folks be at home. He did say, in sooth, that you do be accustomed to bathing with only other womenfolk about.” His expression showed his doubt at such an unusual inclination for privacy.
She smiled wanly. “I was raised in a royal household, Tom, or as near as makes no difference. I was fostered at Middleham, the home of our late king when he was yet Duke of Gloucester and Lord of the North. Things were different there. But perchance your master will find a village woman to accompany me to London.”
He shook his head. “Many in the village do be sick, mistress, and he will allow none to go with us, for fear they will carry the sweat south.”
Ian added, “Like as not, a village wooman’d no be able tae keep up wi’ us, mistress. The Welshman rides swift.”
“But I have been ill,” she reminded him.
“Aye, but ye’re a bonny guid horsewooman, as we saw for ourselves, mistress. A village wooman—”
“Oh, take yourselves off,” Alys snapped, exasperated, “but mind, you tell your precious master that if he thinks he will force me to ride breakneck to the Tudor’s waiting arms, he had best think again, for if he tries it, I shall make it a point to expire on the way, if only for the pleasure of knowing my death will displease the usurper.” When both young men stared unhappily back at her, making no move to obey her command, she glared at them. “Go! Tell him!”
“Methinks,” Tom said cautiously, “that we shall tell him you are well nigh ready to depart, m’lady. I have no wish to measure my length upon the ground, and I have no doubt that if I were to speak so rudely to the meistr, that would be my fate.”
She looked at Ian.
His face, even in the gloomy light of the tent, appeared to have turned nearly the same bright red as his hair, but he said staunchly, “If ye do wish such a message taken to him, mistress, I will do yer bidding, though I have a mither and father at home in Pitlochery who will sairely miss their only son.”
She had been ready to tell him that she certainly wanted him to bear her message, but his mournful tone and the heavy sigh that accompanied his words made her bite her lip instead. She knew she was close to tears and had no wish for them to linger. “I would not endanger you, Ian. I will tell him myself.”
Relieved, they left her to dress herself, and that was an ordeal, for her traveling dress laced up the back. It seemed as if wherever she turned, her desperate need for Jonet was there to aggrieve her. Twenty minutes later, when Ian called to her to ask if she needed assistance, she replied tearfully and without the least thought for modesty, “Indeed, I do. I cannot manage these cursed laces. Come and see if you can do them up for me.”
He came at once and attended to the problem, making no comment about her tearstained face, and turning afterward to tie up the sumpter packs she had not yet bound. Swinging several of these to his shoulders at once, he stepped toward the entrance.
Alys said gravely, “I do not deserve such kindness from you, Ian, but I thank you for it.”
He smiled over his shoulder at her. “You were kind tae me, mistress. I dinna hold it tae your account that the master had me flogged. I didna do m’ duty, and he might ha’ been a deal the harsher. I willna fail him again, nor will I forget yer kindness or that o’ Mistress Hawkins.”
When the tent flap fell into place behind him, Alys stood for a moment, staring at it. She had begun to think she might simply slip away during the commotion that always accompanied preparation for a journey. Believing she had only to get to the river where, especially under cover of the fog, she could count on finding one of her old hiding places, she had briefly hoped that such a plan might allow her to stay behind with Jonet. But the thought that someone else might suffer for her actions, as Ian had done before, deterred her now.
Donning her scarlet cloak and her gloves, she stepped outside the tent at last, and saw at once that her plan would not have succeeded. Sir Nicholas was not hurrying thither and yon, shouting orders to his men, as she had thought he would be, but was sitting at his ease upon one large pack, leaning against a pile of others, watching her tent. He lifted a hand in greeting when he saw her, and got to his feet.
“I have bread and ale for you, mi geneth,” he said. “The fires were quenched earlier, but I would not have you starve.”
“Yet you would tear me from the only person who loves me when she needs me most, and … and force me to wait upon myself, as well,” she added abruptly, certain he would mock so desperate a need for a simple waiting woman. She lifted her chin. “I am not accustomed to such treatment, sir. I shall look a sad sight by the time we reach London, but no doubt that is how the usurper would have all his captives treated.”
“You may be grateful that you are not to be treated as most of his captives were treated,” he retorted grimly.
Her face paled and her throat went dry. “We heard only that the battle was short, that many did die. Were there so many taken captive? Were they ill-treated?”
He was silent for a moment, then said more gently, “Most did flee at once when it became clear that our forces must prevail.”
She ground her teeth, then snapped, “Once it became clear that our rightful king had been betrayed yet again by that toad Stanley is what you ought properly to say!”
Sir Nicholas shrugged. “Richard was a fool to trust a man married to Henry Tudor’s mother. And Northumberland did not fight either.”
She sighed, feeling the great sadness fill her again. “I know. How glad I am that Anne did not live to see that. She always said her Dickon believed other men could be trusted as he himself could be. His motto was ‘loyaulte mie lie.’”
“Loyalty binds me.”
She nodded. “He never spoke a word he did not mean. Anne said it was that trait which did make him a great man. But she did say, too, that he thought other men believed as he did in the chivalrous codes of knighthood when they no longer did so. The Stanleys and Northumberland did not. Their word was not good.”
“The battle would have gone to us, even had they not stayed their hands,” Sir Nicholas said. “Our forces were superior.”
“I did not know the Tudor commanded a greater army,” she said sorrowfully. “I thought our troops outnumbered his.”
“They did,” he said, “but the French guns made ours the stronger force. Alack, a woman cannot be expected to understand such matters, but the French artillery is accounted to be the greatest in the world, and their troops well seasoned.”
“I do understand,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “The usurper’s men—your men—did not fight like knights, but like villains. Instead of engaging the enemy fairly, you cut them down where they stood, as though they had been but blades of tall grass in a meadow and your guns the scythes of summer.”
“The world is changing,” Sir Nicholas said, guiding her toward her palfrey, “and men must learn to accept the changes. In truth, the French guns were only one part of the whole. Had Richard’s men not been discouraged by Norfolk’s death after the first charge, the course might have been altered. But our men, instead of turning and running as they were meant to do when Norfolk’s men charged down the hill, did stay and fight.”
“While the Stanleys and Northumberland sat and watched.”
“Aye, but even so, in the hand-to-hand fighting the honors were equal. Had we fallen, Northumberland and Stanley would have charged in on the winning side, all the same, but it would have been Richard’s side. You must not blame them for doing what English nobles have done for the past thirty years in the wars between Yorkists and Lancastrians. Most have been steadfast only in their pursuit of self-interest, an attitude I doubt will change anytime soon, but his grace, the king, will soon make it clear to them all that their interest lies with him.”
They had reached their horses, and he lifted her to her saddle. Traveling, she rode astride, which was safer than riding sideways on a lady’s saddle, so it took her a moment to arrange her skirts. Beneath her, the animal stirred restlessly, a familiar movement and one that steadied her. She straightened her gloves and gathered her reins, nodding at Ian, who held the palfrey’s bridle. “You need not hold her now,” she said.
“Aye, get thee mounted, lad,” Sir Nicholas said.
A few moments later, the entire cavalcade was ready, and with a last sorrowful look back through the thickening mist at the tent where Jonet lay clinging to life, and another in the direction of the hillside where the graves of her parents and her “brother” lay, Alys turned away, stifling her tears and trying to force her thoughts ahead, to London. But there was still one more item of unfinished business here.
“We must first go to the priory,” she said to Sir Nicholas.
“We ride due south,” he said.
“But I have not paid my mass pennies! Even in Wales, surely masses must be purchased for the good of departed souls!”
“Why do you think such things might be different in Wales?”
“I did not say that.” But she knew that once again he had somehow fixed upon a vague thought behind her words rather than on the words themselves, that he had chosen to debate her prejudices rather than her accusations. She glowered at him.
He returned a steady look but did not speak.
With a sigh, she said, “I suppose I do believe things are done differently in Wales. After all, when we say a man is wearing Welshman’s hose, we mean that he is wearing none at all. Is your land not the harsh, wild place I have been told it is?”
“In some ways it is, but we have our priests and bishops just like anyone else, and I was thoroughly educated at the Blackfriars’ school in Brecon. Your masses have been purchased, mi geneth. I gave that monk enough coin to protect the souls of your dead for at least a year.”
She was grateful but bewildered. She could not understand him. He was not like knights she had known from her childhood, for he did not hesitate to be ruthless and displayed little tendency to treat her as she had been told a true knight treated a lady. Yet he could be gentle, too, and considerate. He had sung to her to help her get well, and he had looked after the dead, going beyond what reasonably might be expected from any enemy, first in waiting until she could be present to bury them (and that despite the fact that he had had no wish to allow her to go near them), and then in seeing to the good of their souls.
“I do thank you,” she said at last, quietly.
He nodded, then turned in his saddle to shout an order for a group of men to ride ahead with Hugh, and for other small groups to spread out along their flanks. He kept Alys beside him, and for a time they rode in silence.
At last, with her fears for Jonet threatening to overcome her again, and hoping to delay them with conversation, she muttered, “Mayhap you are right that Richard ought not to have trusted anyone wed to the Tudor’s mother, Sir Nicholas, but he ought to have been able to trust Northumberland.”
Sir Nicholas shrugged. “I do not know what led to the earl’s decision. Belike ’twas no more than that he reckoned to do better with Henry, but in faith, when Richard recognized treachery, he might still have fled in order to return another day. Instead, he tried to snatch triumph from disaster by attacking Henry Tudor himself.”
“He did? We heard nothing of that.”
“Aye, he did. He had courage, your Dickon, and one must always admire that quality in a man. With only his household knights mounted beside him, he charged at our Harry across the bare heath, right past Stanley’s troops. Before Stanley could recover from his shock, Richard cut down Harry’s standard bearer, who rode next to Harry himself. But then Richard was unhorsed when the Stanleys recovered and fell on him. He died, and with him gone, the battle was done.”
She swallowed a lump in her throat. “We heard that his body was desecrated, that the Tudor forces did mock him and do godless things to him, that they did not bury him in consecrated ground.”
Sir Nicholas looked away, but she saw the muscles in his jaw tighten. “I had naught to do with that, nor did my men.” He said no more, but by his grim look and tone she knew he hated what had happened as much as she did.
She said, “We heard, too, that Richard’s crown, retrieved from a thorn bush, was placed upon the Tudor’s head. He has no right to it, no proper claim! Why, there must be thirty nobles in England with a stronger right than his.”
“Henry Tudor has God’s blessing,” Sir Nicholas said calmly. “He rules by right of battle.”
She did not reply immediately, because the road had turned to follow the course of the Trent, swollen beyond its banks by the weeks of rain, and he had reined his mount in sharply to move between her and the tumbling water. When he was beside her again, she raised her voice over the noise of the river to ask, “Is the Tudor such a great soldier?”
“Nay, he is no soldier at all,” he replied, his deep voice carrying easily to her ears. “In a head-to-head fight, your Dickon must have bested him easily. Our Harry is a politician, albeit a right canny one, who gathers his forces wisely. After they nearly felled him at Bosworth, he swore to keep to the rear henceforth, and let his leaders fight his battles. His uncle, Jasper Tudor, is a great soldier, and the French commander is another. That pair will be well rewarded.”
“As you were,” she said.
“Aye, though they may get land, too, and wealth.”
Their pace slowed, for not only did the river define the eastern boundary of the road now, but a scattering of trees to the west had thickened to become the dense, fog-shrouded wilderness known as Sherwood Forest, narrowing the track and forcing the men behind to reposition themselves in pairs. There was no sign of those who had ridden ahead, and Alys decided that the men who had been flanking them must have fallen well behind.
“Dickon was a good king,” she said sadly a few moments later. “People respected him more than they will the usurper.”
“Richard of Gloucester was the real usurper,” Sir Nicholas retorted. “He stole the crown from his own nephew, whom he did swear to protect.”
“He did not steal it. Anne told me it was thrust upon him. She explained it all. Dickon did not want the crown. His task was to protect the realm, and when he learned that his brother’s children were bastards, that they could not inherit, he had no choice but to claim the crown himself.”
“That tale was a myth,” Sir Nicholas said scornfully, “made up to suit his purpose.”
“It was nothing of the sort,” she snapped. “Edward was pre-contracted to Lady Eleanor Butler, daughter of the Earl of Shrewsbury, when he married Elizabeth Woodville.”
“A very secret contract,” Sir Nicholas pointed out. “So secret that none save one man knew of it.”
“But Edward’s marriage to Elizabeth Woodville was likewise kept secret,” Alys said. “Only when he knew the Woodvilles would tell the world, when he knew there was another marriage in the making, with a French princess, did he confess what he had done. And men do say,” she added, blushing, “that his reason in both cases was the same, that neither lady would submit to his passion without promise of marriage, and so he gave each one the promise she wanted to hear. ’Twas his way. But though Lady Eleanor did respect his wish for secrecy, Elizabeth told her family, and the Woodvilles forced him to acknowledge her his true queen.”
“Why did Lady Eleanor not speak up then?” he asked.
“Edward was king by then, and unlike the Woodvilles, who are naught but underbred Lancastrians, Lady Eleanor was the daughter of a proud Yorkist family. She entered a convent, having no wish to force Edward to acknowledge her, or to live in the world to which he aspired. And, too, she had no wish to create a scandal that would endanger York’s proper possession of the throne.”
“But she was most conveniently dead, was she not, when all this information was sung to the public ear?”
“Aye, she was dead, but the information came from none other than the Bishop of Bath and Wells, who officiated at the pre-contract. And Edward had locked him in the Tower, which made men wonder, for the bishop was a staunch supporter of York and a man of great integrity. Once the truth was out, men knew why he had been locked up. Indeed, Anne said that a great many things became clear once the truth about Edward’s actions was known.”
“I warrant that she thought so,” Sir Nicholas said dryly.
Alys opened her mouth to utter a scathing retort when with no more than a single shout of warning, a troop of armed horsemen erupted from the forest, swords drawn, lances at the ready.
Sir Nicholas dropped his visor, used the same hand to smack her palfrey on the rump, while he drew his sword with the other. “Ride on!” he shouted at her. “Take to the forest!”
By the time she had yanked her startled palfrey to a halt and turned back, he was in the thick of battle.