At His Command-Historical Romance Version

by Kaufman, Ruth

  Amice couldn’t smell anything but damp air and sweat. She tamped down a scream. Panic wouldn’t help him, or her. “Is there anything I can do in the meantime?”

  “See if you can get him to drink something. And pray, my lady. Pray for us all.”

  Pray? That was the doctor’s advice? Amice had to try. But the words wouldn’t come. Because she was so frightened, her head too full of dire thoughts to make room for hope?

  She entwined her fingers and bent her head. “Dear God, please heal Nicholas. Make him well, so he can return to your service. And may William Talbot find peace by joining you in Heaven. Thank you.”

  She’d said the words, but didn’t feel any better.

  That evening a summer rain pounded the lodge, not cooling the air but increasing the dampness. Amice wiped her neck with a scarf. She’d waited outside until Nicholas was carried away. They’d refused to let her accompany him, but she vowed to send Robert to see how he fared. She’d give Robert something to take with him, so if Nicholas awoke he’d know she was thinking of him. He might not recognize her glove or scarf…it would have to be a note.

  She flew to her desk, scribbling as fast as her pen would go on a scrap of parchment she’d used to practice a decorative border of ivy and flowers. She summoned her young page.

  “Robert, you must find Nicholas and give him this. If he isn’t awake, tuck it in his clothing so he’ll find it. Then hurry back and describe all that you see.”

  “But it is late, my lady. Shouldn’t you be abed?”

  Amice was touched by his concern. “No matter how long it takes, tell me how he fares.”

  Nicholas was still in Castillon. Cannon fired blast after blast, but he heard no noise. William yelled, bits of rock and earth flew past, but all was silent.

  Sweat streamed down his back. The fires of hell surrounded him, searing his flesh. Why was the fighting still under way?

  “Nicholas.”

  His name came whispered on the breeze, loud against eerie silence that should’ve been clamor. He squinted into the glare. Amice stood before him, wearing a flowing gown shimmering like gold in the blistering sun.

  He panicked. What was she doing on the battlefield? How did she get here? If he couldn’t save her, she’d be shot and killed. He couldn’t lose her….

  Amice floated over the bloodstained ground, lips curved in a serene smile. He ran to her, shouting for her to get down. No sound came from his mouth no matter how hard he tried to speak. She was mere feet away. Nicholas reached for her but grabbed air, not flesh. She melted into him, filling him with coolness and peace, then passed through and continued on her way.

  Had he really seen her?

  The force of the din’s sudden return almost knocked him to the ground. All was as it had been. He knew he relived the battle but couldn’t stop. He was there and he wasn’t; he watched the events as a spectator, not a participant. But still the suffering, the grief, the fire, pierced deep into his very bones.

  How could he free himself from this torment?

  Chapter 10

  The wait for Robert’s return seemed endless. How could time pass so slowly? Finally Amice gave in to frustration and paced the chamber. She was ready to search for Nicholas herself, despite the late hour. Whoever cared for him would know she was supposed to be in mourning for her betrothed, and would be appalled that she sought entry to the bedside of another man so soon. Ah, the strictures of court.

  Tension gripped so tightly that when Robert finally arrived she wanted to shake the information out of him. Tears ran down his sweet little face, the sight melting her anger fast as butter in Maia’s hot pan. She knelt, gently holding his shoulders.

  “Robert, what happened?”

  “Oh, my lady, he is so very ill. He didn’t wake up when I called to him, he’s gripped by a terrible fever. Those physicians were sawing at someone, they didn’t see me. There was so much blood, men were moaning and screaming. Please don’t make me go back there!” He fell to his knees. “I want to be strong, but sometimes it’s hard to be a man.”

  Heart full of sympathy for Nicholas and Robert, she enveloped her page in a hug. She would not cry.

  There was no other way around it. She’d have to go to Nicholas herself. Who else was there to help him? Perhaps in the middle of the night her errand might go unnoticed.

  Amice covered her head with her oldest shawl. “Robert, you’ll stand watch to make sure we’re not discovered. Can you do that?”

  “Oh, I can’t go back to that horrible place! I won’t!” Hands on hips, he boldly met her gaze.

  Robert’s show of defiance didn’t trouble Amice, though another mistress might have slapped the lad for his impudence.

  “You don’t have to go inside. Just whistle if you sense trouble.”

  “Very well.” Robert practiced his whistle, a rather whispy wheeze.

  “That will have to do. Come, we’ve lost too much time. It will soon be daylight. I can’t wait another entire day to see how he fares or find out if I can help him get well.”

  Keeping close to the stone walls, the conspirators hurried to the infirmary. Robert poked his head in, confirming that the physicians were still engrossed in surgery. He pointed to Nicholas’s bed, then crouched by the door.

  Amice swallowed several times against a stomach that threatened to rebel, forcing herself to ignore the writhing men, wretched moans and pungent odors of blood and worse things. She breathed through her mouth as she crawled to the end of the row of cots, the wood floor cool beneath her palms.

  A flailing arm hit her in the face. She bit back a scream of pain and continued on. At last, her cheek throbbing, she knelt by Nicholas.

  His eyes were closed and he was frowning. She put her hand to his face, for the moment just glad to be with him, even if he was unaware of her presence. His skin was hot, too hot, and damp. He tossed and turned, revealing a leg swathed in a thick, brown-stained bandage.

  Her heart sped and her grip tightened on the wineskin. How could she get him to drink? Would her tisane work?

  She imagined that he calmed at her touch, as though he could sense her concern. As if he knew she was there and was glad.

  Her breath stopped as he opened his eyes and shook his head. He tried to sit up, but she pressed his shoulder back to the bed, afraid movement would draw attention.

  “What?” he whispered, his voice scratchy. “Amice?”

  He had regained his wits. Relief filled her, cool and fortifying. Amice yearned to tell him of her love, how miserable she’d been while he was away. How she’d feared for his life. This was not the place. He was safe, she was by his side. For now that was enough.

  “Nicholas, you are at Clarendon. You’re back with the king.”

  And me.

  “Amice,” Nicholas breathed. “I saw you….” Was he still dreaming? He fought for the words through a thick haze.

  “Shhh. You’ve been ill. Drink this if you can. They forbid me to see you, but I had to.”

  His mind cleared, sun shining through fog. Amice had come to him. She was so beautiful, her eyes so green. His heart filled with warmth he hadn’t known he could feel again at her concern, the effort she’d gone to on his behalf. Until memories flooded him again.

  Memories. The kind that ripped his soul to shreds.

  Nicholas heard pounding cannon, saw clumps of earth shoot into the sky. Talbot went down. He fell, struggled to get up. William’s rescue attempt and…William’s death.

  What could he tell Amice? She couldn’t know how William had died. He hadn’t told anyone the horrific details. Not spilled a word of how anguish tore at him like a vulture feeding on carrion for his part in it. The pain in his leg was nothing compared to that. If she knew, would she still be by his side?

  “Nicholas, can you understand me? Are you all right?” Her whisper was filled with fear. Her nails dug into his arm.

  “I will be well.” He covered her hand with his. Her icy skin didn’t relieve the heat of fever bu
t sparked his worry. “Amice, you must go. You shouldn’t be seen here or—” He didn’t know what time of day it was, or what day, for that matter. “Go now. When I get out of here, we’ll— Get under the bed, someone’s coming!”

  She dropped to the floor as he slid the wineskin beneath the coverlet. Sweat cooled on his brow in the wake of the physician’s approach.

  “You are awake at last.” The physician wiped his hands on a piece of stained cloth. He lifted the coverlet and then unwound the bandage on Nicholas’s thigh.

  Nicholas clenched his jaw against stabbing pain. The occasional moan from other patients broke the silence.

  “I’ve seen worse. How do you feel?” the physician asked.

  “Ready to leave the infirmary.”

  “Not yet, with that leg of yours. You must keep it still a few more days, and we must watch your fever. Then we will see.”

  “I disagree. I wish to recover in my own quarters.”

  “Hmmph! I’ll move on to another patient who might be more willing to follow my orders.” He walked away.

  Cautiously, Amice appeared from her hiding place under his cot. Her hat was askew. What was that red mark on her face?

  “Who hit you?” he demanded.

  “It’s nothing. One of the injured flung out an arm by accident as I passed by.” Her fingertips skimmed her cheek. He reached to take hold her hand, to reassure her all would be well, but thought better of it. “Get well quickly. Will you…will I see you when you’re better?”

  He wanted nothing more than a few moments in her company. To talk to her, see her smile. But the king would soon find her another groom. Why feed a slow-burning fire that could never burn bright?

  Against his better judgment, he said, “Yes. I’ll have Robert bring you a note.”

  “I’ll look forward to it.” She kissed her palm and laid it on his, then crawled away.

  Nicholas steeled himself against the melting sensation that filled him at her light touch, just as he’d fought his concern for her a moment ago. If not for him, her betrothed would be alive.

  How could he allow himself to care for her knowing that?

  A week later, Nicholas had recovered enough to return to his quarters. Supported by a cane, his slow gait, bedeviling twinges with every step…he felt and knew he looked like an old man. But he was alive. So many were not.

  He needed time alone to grieve. But though nothing could be the same as before Castillon, on the morrow he’d return to his duties. And he’d have to contact Amice. Memories of their time together had often soothed the harsh edges of his grief. Would talking with her make him feel better because he missed her or worse because of his unwillingness to share his role in William’s death?

  As if summoned by his thoughts, Robert arrived with a note. Amice was concerned because she hadn’t heard from him. He wrote back that since the doctor had encouraged him to take walks, their paths could cross in the forest.

  He couldn’t wait to see her. Would he find the strength to tell her the truth?

  Slivers of late afternoon sunlight filtered through the canopy of oak branches. Amice shivered, wishing she’d brought a shawl. The air so near the sea was cool even in August. But the scent of growing things, the crunch of leaves beneath her shoes revived her. She’d been cooped up too long. And it’d been far too long since she’d had a real conversation with Nicholas.

  Her heart sped as she waited. How would he look? How would she feel?

  Could they ever regain the closeness they’d shared at Castle Rising? Maybe that was too much to ask. To see him hale and whole, to spend even a few moments with him, would be enough. For certes it was more than she’d had for weeks.

  Her spirit lifted. She couldn’t hold back a smile as Nicholas came into view around a curve in the forest path. Sympathy tweaked her as he leaned heavily on a cane, but his dark hair, familiar handsome face and blue eyes sent joy soaring.

  Amice ran to him, hopeful yet unsure of her welcome. She paused a few feet away.

  He smiled and spread his arms. She hurried into his embrace, tears filling her eyes as she inhaled his pleasing scent and his strong arms held her against him.

  At last. She was exactly where she wanted to be.

  “Amice.” He released her, then twined a finger in her curls. “It’s so good to see you.”

  For a long moment, he stared at her. She stared back, noting every detail, familiar and new. She traced a small scar near his left ear. “I’m so glad you made it home.”

  He winced.

  “Did I hurt you?”

  “No.” He took her hands. “No.”

  Yet she sensed she’d done something to dampen the pleasure of their reunion.

  “Do you want to tell me about France?”

  “Not just yet. Let me enjoy a few minutes of peace. Of the pleasure of seeing you.”

  Her heart warmed, but impatience nagged. “What happens now? Is there anything I can do? I don’t want to wait for the king or queen to find me yet another groom.”

  “We’re all at his command. At times I confess I begrudge the lack of control courtiers, knights and even lords have over their choices.”

  “But even kings can be swayed. Perhaps things have changed since Castillon. Perhaps if I offer coin once more, Henry will accept it. And then when I’m free, we can—” She couldn’t go on. The words stuck in her throat, pricking like chicken bones.

  How could she tell Nicholas what she wanted…a future with him? Difficult to say in any case, but when he didn’t yet know about her work for York, and she didn’t know if he felt as strongly for her, nearly impossible.

  “We? Can what?” he prompted.

  She burned to know if he wanted what she did, but fear of rejection burned brighter. “We can leave court. And return to Castle Rising.”

  He put a finger under her chin to tip her head up until their gazes locked. “We? Are you saying you want me to go with you?”

  “Yes.” The word was softer than a whisper, mingling with the breeze. “Yes, Nicholas. I want you to take me home.” She wanted so much more, but couldn’t ask. Not yet.

  “I can ask for an audience with the king. We can speak with him. Together. Perhaps he’ll permit me to escort you.”

  A long pause. She could see a struggle on his face. With what?

  “And then, I hope we can talk about what we want to do after that.”

  “I hope so, too.”

  We. He thought they were a team. Holding his hand, gaining strength from being with him, was wonderful. But not enough.

  “Do you think we can have a future? Do you want one?” The questions were a risk, but after all that had passed she needed to know. Her heart pounded as she awaited his answer.

  “What we want and what can be are often two different things. I don’t know, Amice. Sometimes I think we can find a way, others…too many obstacles block our path.”

  “I’m tired of waiting, of being patient.”

  “As am I.”

  Even as he said words she wanted to hear, proving that she might have the chance to spend days or her future with him, her failure to be forthcoming combined with a hint of sorrow in his eyes chilled her to her fingertips. Was it because of something she hadn’t said? Or something he hadn’t told her?

  If so, it would serve her right. For there was plenty she’d not told him. She’d handed off more letters for York to Belinda earlier that morning. How could they move ahead with their relationship until he knew it all?

  The forest meeting with Amice had frustrated Nicholas. Just like recent council meetings, which eroded his nerves faster than sand in a windstorm. Few of Henry’s advisors seemed concerned with the good of the realm, but hungered for as much power as each could wrest.

  Despite his loyalty to Henry and England, he’d hoped the catastrophic defeat would put an end to fighting with France. After a hundred years of war, after the great inroads Henry’s father had made, Calais was the only bit that was left to England. Why didn’
t the king focus on the abundance of problems at home instead of draining his coffers to pursue a lost cause abroad?

  Occasional twinges of discomfort in his leg served as nagging souvenirs of Castillon. How could he forget? Horrific sights, sounds and smells of battle, all centered around William’s death, accompanied him each night and kept him from sleep.

  The constant reminders incited him to avoid Amice. In the forest, they’d been so happy to see each other, to plan, he hadn’t been able to bring himself to explain his role in William’s death. He didn’t want her to know of his guilt, to watch joy fade from her face as he told of his failure to save William. How could he face her again without doing so? Would he ever be ready to? He was cracking slowly, like pond ice in the spring. He’d allowed Amice into his heart, savored the elation of feeling so close to someone with whom he’d wanted to share his life.

  Now he endured the agony of not deserving her. Because of William. And because he couldn’t shake the belief that by offering coin for her freedom, she’d also be buying him. What man of honor allowed himself to be purchased like a trinket at a fair? But breaking his promise to arrange a meeting with the king made him feel worse than a coward.

  He hardened his heart against her inquisitive looks. Once she’d walked up to him as they passed in a hallway. He’d forced himself to ignore her. Better that she hate him for abandoning her than because she knew the truth. Even if she could find it in her to forgive him, he didn’t think he could forgive himself.

  But there were fewer people at the smaller manor of Clarendon than at any of the king’s castles. Avoiding her here was more difficult. So he had to find the strength, somehow, to tell her he hadn’t yet spoken to the king. He owed her and himself that, at least.

  A scream disturbed his musings. A page ran up to him. “My lord, my lord, you must come at once, at once!”