At His Command-Historical Romance Version

by Kaufman, Ruth

  He remembered how Amice had yelled in outrage at Harry. He laughed. She was a bit outspoken, but to the right man that would be a blessing. If only he were the right man for her.

  Where had that thought come from?

  Amice’s eyes adjusted to the darkness. She was in her old bed with the green velvet curtains drawn. Her head throbbed as if she’d spent too long in a crowded hall and queasiness gamboled in her stomach. She tried to sit up but fell back against the pillows, alarmed by her feebleness.

  She remembered falling to the floor. ’Twas a fever, nothing more. With deep breaths, she forced herself to relax her tense shoulders. She’d not die young like her parents and brother. She’d never understand why God chose to kill so many in plagues and wars. Why He’d chosen to take her family. The only way she could think of them without the ache of loss making her weep was to believe they were in a better place.

  I will not leave this earth without attaining my goals. I will have and love a family of my own and give them the home and childhood I was denied. No one could hear her vow, but she felt better for having made it.

  Ginelle poked her head through the curtains. “Thanks be to God. I thought I heard you moving about. Are you feeling better?”

  Amice nodded. “A bit.”

  Ginelle opened the curtains and handed Amice a wooden tray with bread and a bowl of broth. “Everyone will be happy to hear you’ve recovered. Maybe life can settle down again.”

  “At least I won’t be forced to marry Edwin’s cousin, the slimy toad,” Amice said, pushing herself into a sitting position. Though at any time, she could be forced to leave her home.

  “But soon you will marry, and someone of the king’s choosing. This one is sure to be handsome and kind.” Ginelle set the tray on Amice’s lap. “Mayhap like Sir Nicholas.”

  What would it be like to wed a man like him, close to her age? As Ginelle had said, handsome and kind. The way he’d wrapped his cloak around her made her smile. The way he’d taken control of Harry made her feel safe.

  “I’m happy enough on my own. I don’t want to marry unless I can choose my own husband. Would I could find a man to love…that would be ideal.” She sighed. “It’s my own fault. The sin of pride. I should’ve accepted cousin Cromwell’s assistance after my parents died. Because I refused his coin, my suitors were few.”

  “Beauty isn’t always enough to snare a man, more’s the pity. You can’t blame yourself for doing what you thought was right,” Ginelle said.

  Amice picked at the bread in her hand. “I suppose not. Most men want a bride who can add to their coffers and holdings. A truth I ignored.”

  “All marriages aren’t as dreadful as yours.” Ginelle picked up the spoon and handed it to Amice.

  “Even in an arranged marriage, there should be things a husband and wife can share. Simple things, like riding together, enjoying a meal.” Amice scooped up some broth and let the liquid trickle back into the wooden bowl.

  “Every woman hopes for a good match. You’ll find one this time around, I’m sure. I’ll be back for the tray.”

  Amice closed her eyes and rested against the pillows. Thoughts of the past had stolen her appetite.

  Her marriage to Edwin had been as lifeless as a plant without water. As a girl she and her friends had dreamed of good marriages, of happy homes. What she’d gotten instead was an old man uninterested in anything but his money and lands.

  Ginelle and other girls in the village often giggled and swooned over men, but Amice was convinced they made up stories for fun. Edwin had never praised her beauty. His kisses didn’t make her melt. They made her want to rinse out her mouth. Amice likened lovemaking to farming. Plow the field, sow the seeds and hope something grows.

  How she’d wanted to have stories like theirs. But the other women knew Edwin, knew his lank gray hair and spindly frame wouldn’t earn deep sighs, knew his mean-spirited ways wouldn’t evoke sagas of love.

  And it was her fault. She’d been so worried about not depending on her cousin she hadn’t thought ahead. If only she’d known how many factors made up a marriage, how many ways a bad one could cause misery.

  A new husband would be found, likely without her even having a say. A wealthy widow with highly ranked male relatives such as her cousin, Lord Ralph Cromwell, oft lost her say in choosing a second husband. But managing Castle Rising for Cromwell, she had authority. People listened to her and acted upon her decisions. She felt accomplished and fulfilled watching the keep and village flourish in her care.

  Could she attain her dreams now? What were the chances of happiness with this unknown groom? Best to find a way to avoid marriage altogether.

  All of this worrying and remembering had worsened the pounding in her head. She closed her eyes again, wishing she could pray for guidance.

  But she was on her own.

  Nicholas pulled aside a heavy, embroidered curtain surrounding his bed. The sun told him it was nigh upon midday. How could he have slept so long? Why had no one wakened him to tell him of Amice’s condition? He dressed in haste and hurried to her chamber without breaking his fast.

  Amice was sitting up in bed, still pale, but clearly better. As comely as the day before. Relief joined the sense of protectiveness that encompassed him in her presence.

  She motioned him into the room. “Thank you for fetching Maia.”

  “What was in her potion? It worked quickly.” He moved closer to the bed. Her dark curls tumbled over the pillows. Were they as soft as they looked? Stop that. Do not think about her beyond her safety. Beyond duty.

  “’Tis a secret, naturally. Eggs, barley, I don’t know all of the ingredients.” She shook her head, sending curls bouncing. He clasped his hands behind his back. “That ride we discussed…we can wait until you’re well. There are plenty of tasks close to the keep.”

  Nicholas took a few steps toward the door then turned. To reassure himself that she was better. Not to glimpse her beauty once more.

  “Why did King Henry send you?” she asked.

  He shrugged and took a few steps closer. “He doesn’t always give reasons. I suppose because he knows me so well. We’re the same age. When we were eight, his tutor, the Earl of Warwick, recruited me to be his companion at swords.”

  “Why haven’t you married? I’d like to think when he makes matches he doesn’t only move people as if they were chess pieces, but also rewards good service.” Nicholas saw hurt mixed with curiosity. She lowered her lashes, as if she’d revealed more than she’d intended.

  How to describe the vagaries of life with the king? Some thrived, others gasped for air like fish on a hook. Helping her adjust wasn’t part of his task. Nor was telling her why he hadn’t wed. Yet he wanted to.

  “Of course he rewards some of his fidelis with titles, lands, and marriages. He offered me a bride a few years after he married Margaret. I chose to serve him in the war with France rather than abandon a new bride.”

  “That I understand.” She sighed. “I wish he’d offer, not command me. I don’t like being told what to do.”

  “Neither do I.” They shared a smile. “I’ll return to see how you fare later.”

  Their gazes locked. Had her annoyance at his arrival faded? Now she seemed intrigued by him. Just as he wanted to learn more about her. Not only because she was one of the loveliest women he’d ever seen, but because her people respected her rule.

  To follow that path would surely lead to peril. He was her protector. Nothing more.

  No matter what he wanted.

  By mid-afternoon, Amice was sure all traces of her illness were gone, but Maia insisted she remain in bed.

  “I’ll not have you taking sick again. Rest,” she ordered.

  She decided to agree with the cook. “I will, but please bring my desk. That way I can accomplish something.”

  Maia nodded agreement to the compromise and fetched the small wooden writing desk. “Why you like to spend so much time with a pen in your hand I don’t know, but if it�
�ll keep you still today, fine with me.”

  Maia departed with a smile, leaving Amice free to write. First she’d compose a letter to King Henry, offering to pay a fine in return for the privilege of not having to wed again or at least permission to choose amongst several candidates. Then she would delve into her manuscript.

  In addition to her dream of having a family, Amice had a secret goal of writing books. That dream sprouted years ago, when her cousin Cromwell first told her about Christine de Pizan, a Frenchwoman who’d written many books and had even been the biographer of King Charles V. He’d seen Queen Margaret herself reading one of de Pizan’s works, The Book of the City of Ladies, about the role of women in society. If only she, Amice, could write such a book that might enlighten and inform others. Even the opportunity to read such a book would surely be one of the greatest events in her life.

  The desire to write had become part of her the way a branch was part of a tree. She’d tried to share her unusual enthusiasm. Cromwell’s nieces, Joan and Maud, couldn’t understand why Amice would want to waste her time on a useless pursuit. Nor could Edwin.

  She’d ignored the naysayers and persisted. Somehow the act of writing made her feel less alone. In whatever time she could spare, she worked on a book about how to manage a castle. Since few of the residents at Castle Rising could read, she hadn’t hidden her work, only what she was trying to accomplish.

  What would Sir Nicholas think? The thought flew into her mind, unbidden. No matter, for he’d never see a word of it. He’d never get to know her that well. For some reason, her chest tightened, as if her heart were shrinking.

  Amice finished and sent off her letter. Would the king help her?

  Nicholas visited Amice before he went to sleep. Some color had returned to her pretty face. A weight lifted from his shoulders, akin to removing his armor. Unbidden came the thought of how nice it would be to see her every day, whether in the midst of chores or in repose.

  Something about her called to him. Well, he’d just have to stop listening.

  She was writing on a small lap desk. Ink smudged her delicate fingers. Smiling a welcome, she indicated a stool. “Thank you for visiting again.”

  “I’m glad to see you—are well.” He brought the stool close to her bed and sat, catching a hint of her rose scent. The longing to breathe deeply tugged at him. Not because she was particularly enticing, but because any woman would smell far better than his men after a hard day’s work. “My men and yours are getting to know each other. We’ve been testing their skills in the bailey. That Douglas is very quick with his sword.”

  Her smile faded into a frown. “I hope he doesn’t have to use it on my account. I wish…everything would be different if my parents hadn’t taken my older brother, Edward, to London.” Her voice cracked. She swallowed. He thought he saw the glint of tears in her eyes, and had a sudden longing to comfort her. “None of them came back. The plague swept through London and took my entire family along with it.

  “I can’t forget. Never to see my beautiful mother again, never to hear her sing in lilting French, be lifted high in Father’s strong arms, or walk proudly with Edward and listen to his stories when he visited from the castle where he fostered to be a knight.”

  He took her hand. She started at his touch, but he hoped the strength in his fingers, the warmth of his skin would soothe her. Make her feel less alone.

  “I’m sorry for your loss.” He pulled his hand free and bid her good night.

  Amice was intelligent. Lovely. Her laugh made him want to…. But soon she’d be promised to the king’s choice, whether she chose to wed or no.

  Best that he focus on their differences. Find reasons to draw them apart, not together.

  Amice’s hand was cold now, and her heart as hollow as the tree she’d learned to read beneath. A stinging rain of memories washed over her as she’d told her story. What had made her share her secret with Nicholas? Made him touch her, and her feel such warmth and peace in return?

  At that moment, she wished she’d never met him, hadn’t glimpsed how satisfying being with a kind, caring, comely man near her age could be.

  Ah, how she hated change.

  Her family’s possessions had meant little because she was alone. Though she loved the folk of Rising, the kindliest friend would never care for her as much as her mother.

  Soon after, the king’s council gave control of Castle Rising to her cousin, Lord Ralph Cromwell, then treasurer of England. He sent his nieces, Joan and Maud Stanhope, to live with her. That helped, for the sisters accepted Amice as one of them. But a void remained deep inside. She couldn’t find it in herself to forgive, as Christians were supposed to do. She’d failed.

  Years later she learned the significance of being in her cousin’s care. Though not penniless, she had no great properties to offer as her dowry, nor were her funds significant enough to entice prospective grooms. When Amice realized Cromwell would have to dower her if she was to marry anyone of import, pride grew in her like an ugly weed. She refused his generous offer of a dowry. He made auspicious matches for Joan and Maud. And she’d had to accept Edwin.

  She’d adjusted to all of those changes on her own. She’d tried to pray, but found no solace.

  Nor would she find any now.

  The unknown frightened her. She’d have to leave the only home she knew, go to court, and marry a stranger. And she had to face Nicholas again, though she was as averse to that meeting as she was to washing a huge pile of laundry. He brought out feelings in her, concern, curiosity, awareness of him as a man, that she didn’t dare profit from. He was not for her.

  She shouldn’t strengthen their fragile friendship.

  She had to make the most of her remaining days unwed. Including maintaining her routine and keeping contact with Sir Nicholas to a minimum. No good could come from getting to know and like him more than she already did. From wanting him to touch her again.

  Tears dripped down her face and her head pounded anew. So much seemed out of her control. In addition to writing to the king, there had to be something else she could do to prevent her life from changing so drastically. But what?

  She vowed to find a solution.

  Chapter 3

  Nicholas was already drawn to Amice in a way he’d never experienced. Had never wanted to experience. He was supposed to guard her from men who might want her or her resources, not want her for himself.

  The king couldn’t send for them soon enough. He didn’t want to spend another day, much less a fortnight or a month, wanting what he couldn’t have.

  Martin knocked, then entered, a cup in his hand. “I know that look. That’s exactly how you looked whenever a certain duchess was near.”

  Martin was the one person who could read him, and a very annoying talent it was.

  “I made sure my interest never amounted to anything. I’ll put a stop to this, too.”

  Even if Amice were attainable, the last thing he needed was a woman to complicate his life. He wanted to simplify his existence. Be at peace. In his experience, women were far more likely to contribute to chaos. After only a short while near Amice, his thoughts were as difficult to sort out as the competitors in a melee.

  “Let me guess who so inspires you. The cook? No, far too plump. The fair Ginelle? No, you don’t like redheads, nor those with a penchant for the dramatic. Why then, it must be…the beauteous Amice?” He placed a hand over his heart. “Ah, the lady of the land. You can, of course, count on my discretion in this matter.”

  “May not a knight admire a fair lady?” Nicholas vowed to be less transparent. If Amice saw what Martin had, he’d be discomfited.

  Martin snorted. “You’re not a troubadour, to sing of longing and praise from afar. Does she know? How does she feel about you?”

  “Martin. We are not writing another Roman de la Rose. She intrigues me.” That was all.

  “What a conundrum, since she’ll be pledged to another.”

  On his way to the evening meal,
Nicholas thought about what Amice had said about not wanting to marry again. Had she been so unhappy that she had no expectation of happiness? She offered him insight into a woman’s mind, something he’d never been interested in before.

  Still, he was intrigued and wanted to know more. Even though she’d soon wed another man.

  Around them, residents of Castle Rising ate and laughed, taking pleasure in the reward of a good meal at the end of a good day’s work. No frowns or sidelong glances like those at court.

  Nicholas began to understand Amice’s pride in calling Castle Rising home, from the indoor kitchen and combination buttery and pantry that made life easier for the servants and allowed food to always be served hot, to the garderobes with ventilation slits, separated from the hall by an L-shaped passage, ensuring that no unwanted aromas permeated.

  He no longer felt like a mere visitor, but was starting to feel at home. Here. With her. He’d need a stronger guard around his heart.

  “My thanks,” he said to the server who delivered stuffed capon. He took a bite. The spiced fowl surpassed his expectations.

  “You’re a king’s man,” Amice said from the opposite end of the table. “You must know here in East Anglia many support Richard, Duke of York. I’ve heard he and Henry are often at odds, and because of York’s close blood connection to the throne—closer than the king’s himself—Queen Margaret sees him and his family as a threat to any children she might have,” Amice said.

  “I’ll always support the king, but what is true is true. King Henry trusts those around him and is easily influenced by others. Much of the work done by his father has been undone. Many of the lands Henry V gained in France have been lost back to the French.”

  Amice ran her fingers around the rim of her silver-trimmed cup. He couldn’t help but notice her slender wrists and delicate, oval nails. And wish he could hold her hand again. “How can you ensure Henry trusts the best men? York’s views seem sound. He’s had many successes as Henry’s aide.”