At His Command-Historical Romance Version

by Kaufman, Ruth

  “Your reputation for honesty precedes you,” York began. “I know you’re devoted to Henry. Unfortunately, the essence of the man is gone. For good, I fear. Despite what people say, I’ve never wished Henry any harm.”

  Nicholas nodded, pleased York was so direct.

  “We may never be able to call ourselves friends, but I hope we can work toward a common end. I need men such as you. If Henry’s supporters refuse to follow me, there can be no peace.”

  Nicholas raised a brow. York, who’d more than once raised an army against his king, now wanted peace?

  “I’ve come to realize I battle Margaret, not the people. They want food in their bellies and clothes for their backs. While Margaret wants the throne for her son. As I do for mine.” He sipped his wine. “Most of Henry’s councilmen want what is best for them,” York continued, setting down his cup. “I don’t want to butt heads with them, like a herd of goats.”

  Neither smiled at the apt comparison.

  “You ask a great deal,” Nicholas said. He needed time to think. He only made snap decisions on a real battlefield, where a split second of indecision could mean life or death. His mind flashed to William.

  “Yes,” York agreed. “I’m not asking you to change your allegiance. As I told Parliament, should Henry recover, he shall be king. I merely ask for what I’d hoped would be given freely. The council’s complete support. Despite my belief that I should’ve been king, I’m loyal to Henry.”

  Was York telling the truth, or trying to manipulate him? He thought of Amice, of her faith in York, of the risks she’d taken for his cause. But was the potentially temporary protectorate truly enough for this man, who seemed to crave wealth and control as King Arthur craved the Holy Grail? Or would he accept what he had now then ask for more later, when each new demand would seem a small thing?

  “For now, I’m with you. I’ll do as you advise.” Choosing was a relief. “But I’ll watch and wait, like a hawk. Should you stray from your nest, I will stoop, and there will be no plea that can save you.”

  York nodded, then sat back in his chair, palms flat on the table. Nicholas knew the duke wouldn’t reveal how much his concession meant. York would show no sign of weakness to a man who could yet again be an enemy.

  Amice relished everything about being home, from the scent of her soap to the familiar faces. She could almost slip into her old routine and put Nicholas out of her mind. He’d always inhabit part of her, but she’d summon strength to make his portion as small as possible.

  Only pleasant thoughts would fill her stay at Castle Rising.

  Amice spent so many hours with the tallies and accounts that Cyril sought her out to make sure she was well. She tended her garden, visited the villagers. She tried to write, but when no words came abandoned the pen for embroidery.

  She’d been surprised to hear Harry had been released, but also relieved. He must’ve given up his mission to marry her, for he’d been on his own for months now with no contact. One less problem to worry about.

  “Amice,” Cromwell called as she walked toward to the stables.

  “Cuzralph, I was going for a ride. Would you join me?”

  “No, no, these old bones don’t climb on a horse unless they have to. You’ve fit right back in here, have you?”

  “Of course. This is my home,” she answered, taking in deep breaths of fresh, familiar air.

  “I meant you’re trying to make life as it was before you went to court.” Cromwell rested his hand on her shoulder. “I worry about you. You smile, but I know you’re brooding about something. Or someone.”

  Amice’s attempts to avoid serious thoughts failed at his kind words. The back of her throat stung and tears threatened. “Everything was simple before. I’m not certain I like all I’ve become. When the queen locked me in the Tower, I realized I’d been accepting my life, as women are taught we must, but I wondered why. I don’t know how to get all I desire.”

  “By striving for things you can obtain, and learning to do without those you can’t. Trust in God to provide. You’ll find peace if you can teach yourself to appreciate what you have,” Cromwell said.

  “Father Heydon says it’s wrong to want to better your lot. I already have much more than many.” Amice took in the view of the bailey, the expanse of grass and oak and ash trees.

  Would Cromwell, like Nicholas, view her actions as betrayal? “Those poems questioning who Prince Edward’s true father is. I wrote some…mine were true, but favored the Yorkist cause. And I copied documents for the duke.”

  The relief at telling the complete truth felt as though she’d set down a basket of cabbages. The sun felt brighter and warmer on her face.

  His mouth formed an O. “Why? Why would you do that?”

  “York needed help. He believes this is one way to raise doubts about Margaret’s ability to serve as regent. The worse Henry became, the more squabbling I heard….”

  “I’m surprised that you would involve yourself so. You’re right. I can’t seek Margaret’s aid knowing this. If you still care for Nicholas, you must go to him when we return. If he refuses you, will you be worse off than you are now?”

  Amice imagined telling Nicholas the truth of her desires. She envisioned disdain and refusal in his eyes, how cold and harsh the blue of them would be. What if he laughed in her face? The humiliation of rejection couldn’t be more painful than the misery she suffered.

  “It would prove there’s no hope for us. I’d have to forget him, and put Nicholas and life at court behind me. The ember of hope I cling to keeps the pain alive. If I could extinguish it, perhaps I’d recover from his loss. But I’ll never forget.”

  She’d cut short her visit and return to court. Cromwell was right. She needed to resolve her situation with Nicholas.

  One way or the other.

  Nicholas paced his narrow chamber like a caged leopard in the Royal Menagerie. Back and forth he strode, with a smooth turn to propel himself in the opposite direction. He tried to put words to his emotions, something he wasn’t used to and didn’t welcome doing. But it seemed the only way to make sense of the turmoil in his mind.

  Never could he recall feeling at a complete loss. Bereft, dispossessed.

  Martin entered, carrying a pitcher and two cups, which he set down on a small table. “Sir, you look as though a loved one had died. Is there bad news?”

  There had been a death in a way, a death of love. Amice had become part of his life so naturally. Now it felt as though a part of him had been ripped away. She’d left court without even a fare thee well. And he missed her.

  “No news of note.”

  “What troubles you?” Martin poured two cups of wine and carried one to Nicholas, then sat on a coffer next to the wall. He leaned back and crossed his feet at the ankles, settling in for a long chat.

  Nicholas accepted the wine, but continued to pace. The movement somehow soothed his agitation. He wouldn’t admit needing to voice his thoughts, yet was thankful Martin was willing to listen. “I can’t seem to stop thinking about Amice, and that’s driving me mad. I should be able to block her from my mind.”

  “Why?”

  He ignored the unanswerable question. “I begin to understand why people want to live together and be bound by marriage,” he confessed. “For the fortunate few, marriage might not be a prison sentence but an opportunity to unite. To form a team where before each worked alone. To have someone to stand with against troubles.”

  Martin raised his cup in a mock toast. “Sir Nicholas, how far you have come.”

  “But her perfidy shattered any trust between us.”

  “Ah, she has crushed your feelings as one tramples a violet in the forest. Step upon the tiny blossom, destroy its delicate petals under your boot and smash it into the dust without a care,” Martin intoned.

  “I’m serious and you make sport.”

  “I will be serious. Forgive me.” He bowed.

  “How could I continue to love a woman who believes as she do
es? Her way of thinking is opposite the path I’ve led.” A sip of wine did nothing to improve his mood.

  “I doubt a troubadour ever said true love was fostered by politics or religion. Imagine how difficult it must be for Amice to understand your devotion to Henry. He was your companion from your earliest memories, but she barely knows him. She’s seen only the struggles in the kingdom. Now, he sits unaware as his kingdom struggles, as others writhe like snakes to gain control. While she supports the one man who wants for himself what Henry had. The only man in all of England who has the power to obtain that goal. Perhaps your feelings for her aren’t strong enough to surmount these differences,” Martin offered.

  “Perhaps not,” Nicholas agreed. “Then why does my chest ache when I think of her? Why do I think of her constantly?”

  “To remind yourself what a fool you were to think what you shared was special?” He set down his cup and folded his arms.

  Nicholas shot him a seething glare without interrupting his pacing.

  “Beg pardon. I see this love can be a painful thing. I’ve never been pierced by Cupid’s arrow. From the looks and sound of you, I hope I never am.”

  “It’s worse than I thought possible. As though I’ve succumbed to some strange disease. Whenever I see a petite, dark-haired woman, my heart skips a beat and I hope it’s her. I find myself enumerating reasons why any woman before me is lacking. Her hair isn’t curly enough, her smile isn’t as bright, her eyes aren’t that interesting mixture of green and brown.”

  Martin gasped. “Oh, my, Cupid’s arrow has struck you hard.”

  “Worse. Amice fills my dreams.” At least he’d had fewer of Castillon.

  “Do you believe dreams are whispers from God, as the Bible says?” Martin rose, matched Nicholas’s steps and took his cup, refilling it before returning to his seat.

  “No. I didn’t remember my dreams until recently, nor did I give them much credence.” Nicholas pulled a stool over and sat before Martin. “Amice is with me. We’re about to kiss.”

  “Is this the good part?”

  Nicholas couldn’t bring himself to share the details, though he enjoyed recalling them. “She wants to tell me something important. But I wake up before she can.”

  “Hmm. Sir Nicholas, why didn’t you ask her to stay?”

  “Why would I? What are we to each other in the eyes of the court? Nothing.”

  “In the end it isn’t the eyes of the court that matter, but your own.”

  “I wish I could agree,” Nicholas said. “We couldn’t even appear to be friends because we feared our feelings would be exposed. How could I allow her reputation to be tarnished, to permit others to view her as less than she is? And she betrayed me by working for York, who has been and might again be an enemy.”

  “Because she didn’t tell you immediately, or because she worked for a cause she believes in that you don’t? Is there a way to reconcile the friend and the assumed traitor?” Martin asked.

  “You are too dramatic and ask too many questions, my friend. I’d thought you’d prove useful or I wouldn’t have told you.”

  All he knew was that he missed Amice more than he wanted to admit. He couldn’t go on the way things were.

  Harry’s nerves danced with anticipation. He had his lotion, Amice was at hand. Within hours he’d have what he coveted.

  All he had to do was get into Castle Rising. If he seemed thoroughly repentant, she might allow him to stay.

  The reunion began exactly as he hoped. The guard brought him straight to Amice, who was embroidering some blue fabric. She was more beautiful than he remembered.

  Amice barely concealed her surprise. She set the material on her chair as she stood, her lovely face and form mere feet away. “Why are you here, Harry?” Her tone was cool, her manner neither friendly nor hostile.

  The guard hadn’t relinquished his firm hold, nor had Amice asked him to do so. Annoying, but Harry couldn’t let his temper get the best of him.

  He swallowed burning envy. He owned little more than the clothes on his back while she owned everything in Castle Rising and more. “I heard you were home, and desperately wanted to apologize for my behavior last year. My days since have been filled with prayer.”

  A long pause. He could see her wrestle with indecision.

  “Thank you for your apology.” She sat back down. “Your journey, I trust, will continue with good favor.”

  Relief fled at being dismissed already. “I hoped, as your brother-by-law, to partake of your hospitality while in the area.”

  Now her generous nature warred with her knowledge of his past.

  “I’ll have a room made ready. But as I’ll be leaving soon to return to court, I’m sure you’ll want to continue your travels on the morrow.” She nodded at the guard, who released Harry with obvious reluctance.

  Victory! “My thanks. I’ll treasure each moment of my stay.”

  They were almost alone in the hall. A lone servant was setting the table.

  “In anticipation of your kindness, I brought you a gift. A delicate lotion. I was told if you apply small amounts to your head, so, it will soothe you.”

  Amice took the blue jar and looked at the intricate painted pattern. As she opened it, she sniffed the contents. “Lily of the valley. My favorite. This must have cost quite a lot. I thank you. I’ll try some this evening.”

  He’d reach his objective. At last.

  Chapter 19

  Amice was tired, but tossed and turned. Had she done the right thing, allowing Harry to remain under her roof? He’d apologized and seemed sincere, Cromwell was here, a man stood watch. She needn’t worry.

  Her thoughts turned from her unwelcome guest to Nicholas. The strain of not thinking about the man was as difficult as thinking of him. Perhaps Harry’s gift would relax her. She opened the jar, scooping cool lotion onto her fingertips. A small amount, he’d said. Spreading half onto her other hand, she raised both hands and massaged the cream into her skin.

  Her head began to tingle. So soothing. The sensation spread down her body to her fingers and toes. How quickly the cream worked.

  Suddenly her legs felt weak. She wobbled to the bed and lay down, head spinning. She tried to plan what she’d do on the morrow, as she did each night. But she couldn’t bring to mind a single task she had to perform. Nothing seemed to matter.

  Drowsiness floated over her like a cozy blanket.

  Harry waited with growing impatience until finally all was quiet. He poked his head out of the room she’d let him sleep in, standing motionless for several minutes, listening intently. Nothing and no one.

  Tiptoeing to Amice’s room, he wondered if she’d tried the cream. What exactly would it do to her? Uncertainty added to his excitement. The apothecary had been vague about the effects, but had drummed home her warnings.

  A board creaked, bringing him to an abrupt halt. After a long moment, he continued on.

  He was in luck. No guard in sight. Her door was partially open. Amice lay on the bed, still fully dressed, her eyes half-closed.

  “Amice?” he whispered.

  There was no reply, no movement. He moved closer. “Amice?”

  When she didn’t answer, he touched her shoulder. No response. As he raised her into a sitting position, her head lolled onto her shoulder. Hmm. This wasn’t what he’d had in mind. Had that wench apothecary known, and, wanting him to buy her costly wares, kept silent? Or had Amice applied too much? An inkling of fear niggled.

  “Amice, it’s Harry.”

  “Hullo, Harry,” she answered sleepily, her head rolling back. That couldn’t be drool oozing out of her beauteous mouth.

  “Amice, I am your friend. I want you to write a letter. Will you do that for me?” He made his voice soothing, cajoling.

  Her head bobbed. He dropped her onto the bed and spied a writing desk. He took out a piece of parchment and inked her pen, and carried both to her.

  “Write, ‘Cousin Cromwell, I’ve consented to marry Harry.’ No,
wait, that sounds silly. Write, ‘Consented to wed with Harry. I know you won’t approve but he is the husband I truly want.’”

  She was writing too slowly. He tapped his foot and repeated himself. Her pen wove unsteadily across the page. He held her hand—so soft, inking the pen as needed. Though the letter might be a bit sloppy for the ever tidy Amice, it would suffice.

  “Add, ‘I am sure he’ll bring me happiness and protect me from harm.’ There. Now sign your name. That’s very good,” he said, as though talking to a small child. “I’ll send this letter by messenger to Tattershall first thing.”

  And pray that Cromwell would convince the queen to approve.

  With Henry ill and York in control, the situation at court had calmed. For the moment. Nicholas requested and was granted a week away. At long last, some time to himself. Not enough for the pilgrimage he wanted, but enough for another important task.

  He touched the leather bag that hung at his waist. The contents had convinced him to find Amice.

  He’d gone to a market to purchase a birthday gift for his sister. But every ware displayed reminded him of Amice. She’d like this silk scarf, sigh longingly over this illuminated manuscript. After passing a jeweler’s stall, he stopped suddenly. Backing up a few steps, he’d focused on the item that had caught his eye. There, on a piece of velvet, was a necklace comprised of eight amethysts set in links of finely wrought gold. Perfect for Amice.

  Amice always wore the amethyst necklace with her mother’s portrait to keep her close. Now he’d convince Amice to accept this one as a token of his love so she could keep him close. Somehow this was the answer to his problems, he felt sure.

  “How much?” He could already see himself fastening it around Amice’s neck. How she’d smile at him and place her delicate fingers on it.

  “I’m sorry sir, but the piece has been sold. I’m awaiting final payment,” the wiry goldsmith said, wringing his hands. “Perhaps you’ll find another to your liking. This beautiful garnet necklace with inlaid pearls compares quite favorably. Or this, with emeralds…. “