Lady of the Knight Page 19

  Andrew ignored that remark. What right did the infamous Jack of Hearts have to jibe him?

  Guy tossed his peach pit over his shoulder and wiped his sticky fingers down the front of his doublet. “Aye, Jackanapes. Methinks old Andrew looks ten years younger than he did a few days ago. Could it be that he has fallen a victim of Cupid’s arrows?”

  Andrew paid no attention to the boy. Why should he, when Rosie looked so delightfully delicious in her mintgreen gown? He applauded when her racket connected with the feathered shuttlecock and sent it flying over Mary’s head. He barely felt any pain in his arm at all— only a little stiffness in his fingers.

  Jack cleared his throat for attention. “Since oysters have proved such an inducement to love, let me bathe in a barrel full of the creatures.”

  Brandon gave his cousin a telling lift of his eyebrow. “You need no help, Jack,” he remarked. “Rather, a cold blast from the north to cool your hot blood. That, or a hot wench,” he added with a sly grin.

  Andrew frowned at the trio. “You are in the presence of a lady—of two ladies, in fact. Behave yourselves accordingly.”

  Jack chortled. “Oh? Like Guy behaves with Lady Bardolph?” he asked with a mischievous grin.

  Brandon choked on his peach and stared at his younger brother. Guy flushed darkly and returned him a guilty grin.

  Andrew shook his head. Guy was not yet twenty and too young to fall pray to Olivia’s wanton wiles. “Rosie and Olivia are as alike as oil and water,” he observed. He sent Guy a particularly pointed look. “I might add that Lady Bardolph is well-used laundry water. Take note, fledgling.”

  Jack laughed at Guy’s discomfiture. “I second our good mentor’s opinion—from personal experience. Ah, but Rosie! When she tires you, old man, give her to me for an hour or two of sport. I long to tussle with her.”

  The other two laughed.

  Andrew’s bile welled up in his throat. He resisted the urge to wring the young rooster’s neck. Instead, he clapped his hands and called Jeremy to leave off polishing his armor and fetch the lute.

  “You and you.” He pointed to the Cavendish brothers. “Relieve the ladies of their rackets and partner them in a pavan. Rosie must practice her dance steps and I fear she has grown too used to mine. Jeremy, play for them and mind your chord changes.”

  With a bit of good-natured grumbling, the young giants pulled themselves to their feet and ambled over to the ladies. Jeremy dragged his stool out of the tent, and tuned the lute strings.

  “Again?” Rosie called to Andrew when Guy offered her his arm. “’Sdeath, Andrew. You will have my feet bleed yet!”

  Andrew merely waved the slate that he kept near at hand. “A lady does not swear, my dear.”

  She made a face at him, then laughed. Jack snorted.

  “And what of me? I can dance a better turn than Guy any day of the week. Let me partner that delicious dainty morsel.”

  Andrew gripped the young knight’s shoulder and shook him hard. “Rein in your voice and come inside the tent with me.”

  “Now? Tis as hot as sin in there!” Jack protested.

  Andrew stood and glared at him. “This is not a request, but a command. Though I know you are now past my authority, I exercise it.”

  Jack opened his mouth to utter some vulgar oath, but snapped it shut when he saw that Andrew’s merry face was serious. He scrambled to his feet, brushed off the dust from his tights, then meekly followed the older man. Andrew dropped the flap down behind them to insure their privacy. He pointed to the wine jug.

  “Pour us both a cup, Jack. Fill to the brim for I have thirsty work ahead of me, and methinks you will need yours before I am done.”

  Jack turned a shade pale. “Have I gotten some wench with child?”

  Andrew decided to let him sweat a little. Twas time the lad took some thought of his reckless frolicking among maidens high and low. “Wine,” he ordered. He sat down heavily in his armchair and wished he had not promised Alicia that he would do this delicate task.

  In silence, Jack splashed the ruby liquid into the silver goblets. His hand shook a little.

  “Which one is it?” he asked as he handed Andrew his wine.

  Andrew pointed to the low stool at his feet. “Sit!” he barked. For once, the prattling Jackanapes did so in trembling meekness.

  “Rosie—” Andrew began, but Jack interrupted.

  “By my life, Andrew! I have not touched her, I swear it!”

  Andrew held up his hand. “Peace, you twittering fool. Allow me to finish for tis a hard tale to tell and one that will take away your breath.”

  The young man muttered into his wine.

  Andrew gave him a stern look. “Speak gently of Rosie. Would you say the same things about your sister as you do about her?”

  Jack looked up at him with a mixture of confusion and surprise in his blue eyes. Then he grinned. “God’s nightshirt! You caught me square with that one! So I have not got a little bastard on the way. Whew!”

  Andrew did not flinch. “Bastardy is no laughing matter.”

  The other frowned. “You talk in riddles, old man, but I will play your game. Nay, I would not speak about a sister the same way as I do about a toothsome wench. But you forget one important fact—I have no sister. Nor a brother. Alas, I am an only child.” He pretended to sob.

  Andrew kicked his kneecap.

  Jack swore and rubbed it. “I grow weary of your discourse, Andrew. Speak your mind and be done with it.”

  Andrew wanted to toss his wine into the brat’s face, but it would be a waste of a good vintage and would not help the situation. “Very well, Jack. The long and the short of it is this—Rosie is your younger sister.”

  For the first time in memory, Jack did not utter a sound. Instead a multitude of emotions played across his face. Then he smiled. “How long have you sat up at night thinking of this quip? My sister is a whore from a goose farm? Then I am the son of the Ottoman Emperor.”

  Andrew leaned closer to Jack. “Nay, you are the son of Sir Gilbert Stafford and the heir of Fenderwick.”

  Jack swallowed a large mouthful of wine. “Sing me a new song. I know this old tune already.”

  “Our sweet Rosie is the natural daughter of your mother, Lady Margaret Stafford, by a secret lover who died shortly after her conception.”

  Jack furrowed his brows. “You are serious. Nay, tis some perfidious claim that the chit has made for her own profit. You are more besotted than I first thought.”

  “And you have sheep’s wool for brains,” Andrew replied in an even tone. He had known this conference would not be easy. Jack had the stubbornness of a mule, and on occasion the intelligence of one. “How much do you remember of your lady mother?”

  Jack ran his finger around the rim of his goblet. “She died after I had been fostered to Sir Thomas. I must have been thirteen. She was cold in the ground before I got the news.” His mouth tightened into a hard line.

  “And before you left your home?” Andrew prodded with gentle care. Jack rarely exhibited his deeper emotions.

  The youth shrugged his shoulders but did not look at him. “My father kept her in her apartments most of the time. Said she was sick and could not be disturbed by a noisy boy.” A muscle ticked in his jaw.

  Andrew chose his next words carefully. “Your father is a hard man—and a vengeful one.” He paused and waited for Jack to erupt. When the lad remained silent, he continued. “As I understand the tale, he married your mother for her estates when she was little more than a child.”

  Jack sneered at him. “Tis not unusual. You married for wealth.”

  Andrew sent a silent prayer for forgiveness to Gwendolyn’s innocent soul. “Aye, but I loved my little wife as best I could, though she never outgrew her childish mind. Ours may not have been a true marriage, but I made her happy with games, toys and songs. On the other hand, your mother matured into a desirable woman, yet your father sired you as a matter of cold duty. Then he returned to the arms of his mistre
ss, leaving Lady Margaret unloved and unwanted. Can you blame her when another man offered her his love?”

  Jack continued to toy with his goblet. “I know nothing of this.”

  “You were only a babe in leading strings when your mother conceived her daughter. To save the child from your father’s jealous wrath, she placed her on the altar steps of Saint Giles.”

  Jack snapped his head up. “At Stoke Poges?”

  “The very same.”

  The boy whistled through his teeth. “Tis a mere coincidence.”

  “Lady Alicia thinks not. She knew your mother well and loved her.”

  Jack drained his wine. “Then I will speak with her. I must have more proof than your tale.”

  Andrew nodded. “She will convince you as she did me. But before you go, stand before my looking glass and search your face carefully, Jack. You look like your mother. Mark the shape of your mouth and the tilt of your nose. Remember your smile and laugh. Then observe Rosie—her face, not her body. If you are not blind, you will see the resemblance.”

  Jack crossed the rug and stared at his visage for a long while. Andrew watched him. The youth in the glass seemed to change and grow more mature. Then Jack gave himself a shake and turned to leave.

  “One more thing, Jack.”

  Pausing midstride, he cocked his head. “Aye?”

  “No matter if you believe my story or not, say nothing to your father. He will believe it, and Rosie’s young life will not be worth a groat. Her mere existence is a thorn in his vanity.”

  Jack considered this for a moment, then nodded. “I would not have Rosie’s life endangered, no matter who she is. I am not my father.”

  “Thank the good Lord for that!”

  He gave Andrew a piercing look. “What will become of her?”

  “I will take care of her.”

  His lip curled. “As your mistress?” He did not wait for the answer, but pushed his way through the tent flaps.

  Andrew stretched in his chair then mulled the boy’s question. Jack had hit the mark dead center, and the rebuke in his voice pricked Andrew’s conscience. He buried the uncomfortable feeling, finished his wine, then strolled outside.

  The stately pavan had changed into a merry country dance. No doubt, Lady Mary had called the tune. Andrew grinned as he watched Rosie twirl and laugh. Her face glowed with a happiness that had not been there a week ago. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Jack also watched the merry romp. When Jeremy brought the frolic to its conclusion, young Stafford slipped away and headed in the direction of the countess’ tent.

  Godspeed, Jack—and good luck, Alicia.

  Hidden by Lord Browrilow’s tent, Fitzhugh and Gareth watched the dancers applaud themselves.

  “The lass learns quickly,” Fitzhugh remarked. “She dances almost as well as you do, Gareth.”

  Hogsworthy replied with a muttered oath. “I will fiddle her fine joints to dance to a different tune—under me,” he snapped.

  Fitzhugh chuckled. “So you have said—repeatedly.”

  Gareth glared at him. “Do not mock me, Ned. I will win in the end.”

  Fitzhugh had the good sense not to answer. Gareth gnashed his teeth when he saw Rosie skip up to Ford and kiss the man on his cheek. The jade had grown far too bold, thanks to Ford’s foolish pampering. She needed to be reminded of her place, and Gareth knew just how to teach her. A sour smile ruffled his lips as he contemplated the lessons he would give the wench.

  Monday, June 18

  A few days later, one of the king’s young pages arrived at Andrew’s tent with a large bundle wrapped in unbleached muslin and a message from His Grace. Rosie welcomed the respite from her dinnertime etiquette lesson. She fanned herself with one of the napkins and wished they were back in England where it was cooler. It had not rained once since she had arrived in France. No wonder the French were natural devils, she thought. They lived in hell.

  Andrew’s fine brows flickered a little when he read the king’s message. “I fear I must disappoint you, Rosie. I cannot take you to the joust this afternoon.”

  She hid her disappointment behind a false smile. She had never before seen a tournament and had looked forward to this one.

  Andrew patted the page on the head. “Tell the Master of Revels that I will come anon.” He gave the child a silver penny. “Run along, poppet, and do not make yourself sick on sweetmeats with my largesse.”

  The child grinned with gap-toothed pleasure and trotted out, polishing his new riches on his green-and-white tabard.

  Rosie shook her head at him. “You know he will do it, my lord.”

  He chuckled. “Aye. Tis why I gave him the coin. Every little boy should have the opportunity to get as sick as a dog on marchpane. Now, let us see what fripperies the Master of Revels has sent me. By the book!”

  He held up a short cloak and shook out its folds of scarlet satin. He ran his finger over the crossed keys that were embroidered in gold thread on the shoulders. “Hoy day, Rosie! I shall look like a boiled prawn in this!” He twirled a crimson satin hat with golden scallops stitched on its upturned brim.

  She had never beheld such finery, not even in all of Andrew’s overflowing coffers. “Pray tell, what is this for?”

  He adjusted the cape on his shoulders and admired the effect in the mirror. “A masque, my sweet. A piece of mummery to amuse a court that has grown bored with itself. Something to tweak the long nose of the French king, I presume. In any event, I am to appear at the king’s banqueting pavilion within this hour for rehearsal of my part.”

  He grew more serious. “I fear you cannot come with me this time, Rosie. I must keep you from sight of the court until the feast. Jeremy! Run to the Countess of Thornbury and ask if Rosie may idle away a few hours in her company.”

  The long-suffering squire nodded and dashed away. Rosie kicked off her slippers and wiggled her stocking toes with relief. The shoes still pinched no matter how long she wore them.

  “Mayhap, Lady Alicia would like to play a hand or two of primero.” Rosie had just mastered this card game and had discovered that she could beat both Andrew and Jeremy with regularity.

  Andrew pretended to be horrified. “Nay! Tis not in the least ladylike to win all of the countess’ silver coin. Sir Thomas would have my head in a basket.”

  Rosie shrugged. “Tush! We will play for comfits or cherries.”

  He gave her an amused look. “And you will grow too fat for the fine gown I have commissioned for you. Then what would you wear to the king’s feast?”

  She curled her lips in an impish grin. “I could go in my petticoats. You said I looked fetching in them.”

  He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “Aye, you minx, fetching to my eye, but I fear you would shock the great Cardinal Wolsey.”

  She tilted her head back for another one of his hearttugging kisses. “And King Henry? Would I shock him as well?”

  Andrew caressed her lips with his mouth.

  “You would incite unholy thoughts in our young monarch. Nay, you must stay properly clothed—except for me.”

  She twined her fingers amid his brown and silver hair and pulled him closer for a deeper kiss. “Must you go just now, Andrew?” she whispered. She yearned for more of his passionate attentions. Her heart overflowed with love for him that she knew she could never reveal.

  A sigh of regret escaped from his lips into hers. “Aye, when the king commands, we all must obey.”

  A discreet cough interrupted further dallying. Jeremy looked very red in the face, either from running in the hot sun or from catching his master at play. Rosie adjusted her bodice and straightened her golden necklace. Jeremy could be such a killjoy at times.

  “The earl and his lady have gone to visit the French encampment for the day,” announced the boy. “The Cavendish brothers and my Lord Stafford are already at the tiltyard in preparation for the joust.”

  Andrew pursed his lips. “Perdition take it! Try Lady Mary.”

  Je
remy shifted his feet. “I did, my lord. She and Sir Martin accompanied the Thornburys, and Lady Marianne is skylarking about.” He shrugged.

  “Humph! Lady Marianne, sweet soul that she is, couldn’t defend a flea from a cat.” Andrew’s face betrayed his anxiety.

  Rosie took his strong hand in hers. “Do not fret upon my account, Andrew. I will be safe enough here by myself. I give you my solemn promise that I will not run away again.”

  He knelt down beside her chair. “I know you would not, sweetling, but the camp crawls with evildoers.”

  She placed her finger across his lips. “Thanks to my upbringing, I am quite handy with a knife. I can butcher a goose in the twink of an eye.”

  He kissed her finger. “Tis not a goose that worries me.”

  She tucked his hair over his ear. “Tis not a goose I would prick with my knife. Have no fears for me. I can take care of myself.”

  He savored her lips again—a hard, lingering kiss as if he wished to burn his passion into her memory. “Pray God that you do, my sweet. I will station one of my men to guard you.” Then he cleared his throat. “Jeremy, gather up my scarlet finery and let us away. Rosie, take pen and ink and practice writing your name on a piece of foolscap as I showed you.”

  She groaned. Penmanship was her least favorite occupation.

  He gave her a stern look, though he marred the effect with a sudden smile. “Ladies should know how to sign their names. I will inspect your efforts upon my return. If not…” He pointed to the slate, now scored with marks and chalky smudges.

  Rosie wrinkled her nose. “As you desire, my lord.”

  He rolled his eyes in mock agony. “Do not ask me what I desire, sweet Rosie. You know it already. I will leave Nym outside on guard,” he added, naming one of his men-at-arms. Then he turned on his squire. “Jeremy! Quit standing there like a hobbledehoy! Let us be gone!”

  Blowing her a kiss, he strode out. He shut the flap, leaving her alone in the hot airless tent.

  Rosie bathed her face in a basin of cool water, then spent the next frustrating hour alternately writing her letters and making enormous blots. Her perspiration mingled with the ink on the paper and further marred her work. The sun beat down on the canvas roof.