Three Dog Knight

by Tori Phillips

  His touch upset her balance. A rush of heat flooded her cheeks. “You…you are kind to say so, Thomas.” A strange inner excitement filled her.

  His expression stilled, and grew more serious. “I am deeply privileged that your guardian entrusted your person to my care.” He held the dagger aloft by the blade. The sunlight cast the shadow of a cross on the white wall opposite them. “I hereby vow upon my honor as a knight, and upon the cross of our Redeemer, to uphold this trust so given to me.”

  She felt a warm glow of joy flow through her. Now he would tell her that he loved her. His touch, his voice and the gleam in his eyes sent shivers of delight through her. She waited with happy expectation for the words of his love to tumble from his lips.

  He sheathed his weapon, then he took her hands, and placed his large ones within the cup of hers in the ancient act of allegiance. The fire from his brilliant blue eyes pierced the distance between them.

  “Know this of me, Alicia Plantagenet, that I, Thomas Martin Cavendish, ninth Earl of Thornbury, do swear to become your liege man of life and limb and of earthly worship, and, with the faith and truth that I will bear unto you, to live and die against all manner of folks that threaten you.” Then he bowed his head, and sealed his vow with a kiss on her palm.

  The warm brush of his lips against her skin set her blood on fire. Alicia was very thankful that she was seated, for her legs had grown uncommonly weak. A soft gasp escaped her, causing him to look up at her. The intensity of his expression shocked her. It made her nervous to have this powerful man on his knees before her. How did one answer to such a solemn oath? Nothing that Edward or Katherine had taught her prepared her for anything like this moment.

  She cleared her throat, pretending not to be deeply moved. “My thanks, Thomas,” she murmured, hoping that her voice did not reflect the surging tide of her feelings. “Please stand, I pray you. I am not used to such formality.”

  He rose in a single fluid motion. Taking her by the elbow with surprising gentleness, he raised her up from the chair. A muscle quivered in his jaw. Nervously Alicia again licked her dry lips. He was so close, she could feel the heat from his body. His steady gaze bore her into silent expectation. A nameless desire consumed her. Her pulse quickened at the anticipation of his next move. The very air in the chamber seemed to crackle like a fire leaping in the grate.

  Without uttering a word, Thomas gathered her into his arms. He clasped her body tightly against his. She inhaled sharply at the contact, intoxicated by his warm, manly scent. She felt her blood coursing through her veins like a flooding mountain brook in springtime. His broad shoulders heaved as if he had just run a footrace. His hard-muscled thigh brushed against her hip, sending a thousand sparks dancing up her leg. The touch of his hands on her spine, firm and persuasive, invited more intimacy. Abandoning her shyness, she wound her arms around his neck, and locked herself within his embrace.

  “Alicia.” He murmured her name like a prayer. His warm breath fanned her face.

  Her thoughts spun.

  She felt herself weaken as his lips slowly descended to meet hers. Parting her lips, she raised herself to meet his kiss. He brushed hers, then gently covered her mouth. His featherlike touch was a delicious sensation she had never before experienced. He kissed her with a slow thoughtfulness. His tongue traced the outline of her lips before venturing inside. She melted in his embrace, and returned his kiss. Her eager response momentarily shocked her. His tongue sent shivers of intense pleasure racing through her. He tasted as warm and sweet as summer wine.

  She moaned in the depths of her throat.

  Raising his mouth from hers, Thomas gazed into her eyes. Cobalt fire leapt within the depths of his. She panted lightly between her parted lips, silently pleading for his return. His mouth again took hers with a new hunger. She answered his deeper kiss with a passion that belied her calm exterior. His ardor transported her to a soaring mountaintop. His kiss sang in her veins.

  The dogs, who had been very quiet since Isabel’s departure, now barked and leapt about. Taverstock dropped to his forepaws, and stuck his backside into the air, uttering a series of commanding barks. Vixen added an unexpected yip or two, as she circled the entwined couple.

  With a sigh of resignation, Thomas dropped his arms, and stepped back. “Be still!” he ordered his furry chaperons.

  Georgie and Vixen obeyed him at once. Tavie continued to protest his displeasure with growls low in his throat.

  “Your pardon, sweet lady,” he mumbled, not looking at her. “My dogs think you are attacking me. I need to school them better in their manners.” He glanced down at the bulge that was clearly outlined by his black knit hose. His face turned red. Clearing his throat, he swept up the terrier into his arms. “By your leave, I will remove them hence, and take them for a long walk in the forest. They…um…need the exercise.”

  He picked up the king’s brooch from the desk, and placed it in Alicia’s hand. “Wear that at our wedding on the day after tomorrow. ‘Tis fitting that you keep it.”

  Grasping the struggling Tavie in a tight hold, he leaned over and brushed a final, gentle kiss across her forehead. His lips touched her skin like a whispered promise.

  Taverstock barked with renewed indignation.

  Thomas rapped him on the nose with his finger. “Enough, you loudmouthed knave. You offend my lady’s ears with your noise.” He snapped his fingers again. “Come, you two, let us be gone.”

  Georgie and Vixen trotted out into the hallway ahead of him. In the doorway, he executed a court bow without dropping the protesting terrier.

  “My princess,” Thomas addressed her. “Now and forever more.” Without waiting for her response, he closed the door behind them.

  Alicia heard his footfalls receding down the corridor. She collapsed into the chair, and sat quietly while she waited for her heartbeat to slow to its normal rhythm. Tracing her swollen lips with her finger, she relived the velvet warmth of his kiss. A sweet sense of well-being enveloped her. He had accepted her, even with the danger of her Plantagenet blood. He had sent Isabel away, not her. Two days from now he would marry her.

  And yet…

  A niggling worry wormed its way into the pleasurable contemplation of her wedding day. Alicia had been surprised—overwhelmed—by Thomas’s dramatic acceptance of her lineage. He had called her a princess in tones usually heard before the high altar during the mass. His kiss, so unexpected yet so desirable, indicated that he was a man full of passion. She furrowed her brows together, and wondered if that passion was for the House of York, whom she represented, or his ardor was for her, that noble family’s lowliest member. He had extolled the virtues of honor and duty—but not of love.

  She touched her sleeve, and recalled the scraps of the latest love letter hidden there. She fished out the little bundle, then smoothed each of the tattered pieces of paper. She fitted the bits together until the complete message lay on the desk. Rereading the loving words, she drank in their meaning. Then she studied the handwriting with its large loops and bold dashes. Truly they were the same as she had seen him write earlier this afternoon, yet the man and the message did not fit together.

  Cease your woolgathering! Take what has been offered, and pray ‘tis true. Her tongue touched her lips, still warm and moist from Thomas’s kiss. She squeezed her eyes shut. Startled by a sudden truth that flashed through her mind, a tiny gasp escaped her lips.

  I love him!

  The admission sprang from a hidden place beyond all her common sense. Its verity shook her to her very core. Moreover, she realized that she desperately wanted him to love her in return. She swept up the slips of paper, and returned them to the protection of her handkerchief. She would make a paste of flour and water, and bind the pieces together again.

  Alicia rose, and stretched. Though she had not done any physical exercise for the past hour or two, her limbs felt as heavy as if she had washed and wrung dry the castle’s entire inventory of bed linens. She needed activity at once. Th
e kitchen would have started its preparations for the evening’s supper by now.

  Opening the library door, she breathed in the coolness of the passageway. She felt her flushed cheeks with the back of her hand. It had been close in that little chamber. Or was it Thomas’s kisses that had made her feel so warm? She tossed her braid over her shoulder. Of course not! ‘Twas the strain of telling her secret, nothing more. She closed the door. The latch clicked into place.

  The usual noise and bustle in the large kitchens stilled when Alicia came down the steps. The assembled spit boys, scullery maids and assistant cooks stared at her with expressions that ran the gamut between surprise and awe. Even Master Konrad regarded her with a new look of respect in his eyes. No one said a word, nor coughed, nor even shuffled their feet. She swallowed back her unease, though she held her head high. She fought the urge to flee to the sanctuary of her overly splendid chamber.

  The cook took a deep breath. “Good afternoon, my lady,” he intoned, touching his fingers to his forehead. “We did not expect to see you down here again, now that you are to wed my lord.”

  She smiled, and prayed that her trembling lips did not reveal how frightened she suddenly was at the prospect of becoming the chatelaine of Wolf Hall. “Why would I not come? My…mother taught me that a good housewife knows every inch of her kitchen, and what goes on there. We worked well together yesterday. Why not now?” She laughed lightly, though her heart banged against her rib cage. “And I am not yet a lady until Sir Thomas marries me. Now, good Master Konrad, I am in urgent need of some flour and water, for I have torn a paper of my lord’s by mistake, and must mend it”

  A wide grin split the cook’s face. “’Tis a pleasure to have you here, my…that is, Mistress Alicia. You know where the flour is kept. I will clear a spot on the cutting board for your work.” Then he turned upon the rest of the servants. “What ho, you gaping rascals? Back to your duties, and be quick about it.” He shot them a fierce glare.

  The usual hum of activity stirred again in the kitchen. Alicia sighed with relief as she lifted down the heavy flour crock from the pantry shelf. She poured a small amount into a bowl, then added some water from the bucket by the drain board. Using a whisk made of peeled twigs, she mixed the paste until she was satisfied with its consistency. She cut a piece of kitchen parchment approximately the size and shape of her note, then she positioned the scraps on the table beside her. Settling herself on a tall stool, Alicia bent over her work. She hoped that none of the curious servants could read.

  Despite Master Konrad’s prodding, most of the boys and maids managed to wander by Alicia to look over her shoulder. She pretended not to notice their open interest. If she made light of the ticklish task, she hoped they would grow tired of watching her.

  She smeared the paste on the back of the first scrap—the top left-hand corner—then positioned it on the parchment Next she added the neighboring bit, making sure to align the loops and dashes together into a seamless whole. Most of the servants grew bored with the tedious process, and meandered away until only Audrey remained. Alicia glanced at the maid out of the corner of her eye.

  “Do you know your letters?” she asked, hiding her dread behind a cheerful smile.

  Audrey shrugged. “One or two, but not when they are all run together like this.” She squinted at the half-finished letter. “Are you certain sure that this paper was writ by Sir Thomas?”

  Alicia shifted uneasily on her stool. “What do you mean?” she asked with a bantering tone. “Who else would make such large, strong letters?”

  “Master Andrew,” the girl replied at once.

  Alicia’s former misgivings increased a hundredfold. Her hands grew cold. She feigned a complacency that she did not feel. “Aye? How could that be?”

  The maid scratched the tip of her nose. “Sir Thomas schooled his squire in his letters. I remember it well because Master Andrew protested that he had already learned a fine hand from the Duke of Buckingham. ‘Twas no matter. My lord told him to start again.”

  The nagging suspicions in the back of Alicia’s mind refused to be still. She wiped her fingers on her apron, then gave her full attention to Audrey. “Why would Sir Thomas wish that his squire should copy his hand?”

  The maid shrugged. “I do not know, Mistress, but Andrew once bragged to me that he could now imitate my lord’s script so well that he could pen a letter to the sheriff of Northumberland, and that worthy man would be none the wiser.”

  Alicia felt a heavy weight drop onto her shoulders. She stared at the partial note. Its sugared sentiments mocked her in its swirling loops and elongated dashes—just like Thomas’s. Under the table her hands shook. She clutched them together. Her initial suspicions had been correct. Andrew was the true author, either to tease Alicia, or to fulfill his own lusty desires.

  Her lighthearted gaiety veered abruptly to hot anger. She couldn’t wait to get a hold of that stripling. She would box Andrew’s ears so soundly, he would hear ringing bells for a week. She slid off the stool, then gathered her half-finished work in her paste-crusted hands.

  “My thanks to you, Audrey. You have been most enlightening. Pray excuse me, I have a headache.”

  Biting her tongue to keep from blurting out her true emotions, she fled the kitchens. She did not draw a deep breath until she was safe behind the door of her chamber. She glared at the pulpy mess she clutched. How could she have possibly thought that Thomas had written these beautiful lines to her? Until a short hour ago, he had thought of her only as the goldsmith’s daughter. A hot tear of humiliation trickled down her burning cheek.

  Alicia crossed the room, and pulled back the tapestry that concealed the narrow garderobe. With a bitter sob of dejection, she dropped the partially-mended note down the noisome privy shaft. The rest of the missive fluttered after it. Then she rinsed her hands in the basin, and threw herself across the wide luxurious bed. She sank into the down mattress, without noticing its comfort.

  In two days, I will be Thomas’s wife—honored, respected, but never, ever loved!

  For the first time since she had come to Wolf Hall, Alicia allowed herself the release of a good cry. Afterward, she fell into an exhausted sleep, and completely missed supper.

  She awoke in a night-filled chamber with a number of firm resolves etched in her mind. She would be the perfect mistress of Wolf Hall, and bear Thomas whatever children God would send them. She would treat her husband with all the dignity and honor that befitted the Earl of Thornbury. She would be grateful for the protection of his name, and the loyalty that he had pledged to her Plantagenet family.

  But she would never be silly enough to allow Thomas to touch her heart again.

  Chapter Twelve

  Thomas immersed himself in a frenzy of preparations for his nuptials. That way, he didn’t have time to contemplate the new life that lay after the wedding day. The prospect terrified him.

  He cornered the castle chaplain, told him that he would marry Alicia at eight o’clock in the morning the day after tomorrow. He brushed aside the reedy priest’s stuttered objections to the hasty ceremony.

  “Proclaim the banns at the three masses tomorrow.” With that, the young Earl of Thornbury left his confessor gasping in his wake.

  He ordered Stokes to send messengers with invitations to the neighboring nobility—even to his near neighbor and frequent enemy, Sir Roger Ormond of Snape Castle. At least, there would be one day Ormond could not poach Cavendish game.

  Thomas plunged the kitchens, buttery and scullery into total chaos by demanding a large wedding breakfast prepared for all the tenants, villagers and guests. Master Konrad mopped his broad brow when he scanned the menu prepared by the bridegroom.

  “Sturgeon, my lord?” The cook frowned. “I do not know if I can procure such a rare fish in time.”

  Thomas turned on his heel. “Send a boy to York within the hour,” he advised over his shoulder.

  By the time he sat down at the high table for supper, he had used up much of
his excess energy. He felt fatigued, and longed for hours of blessed sleep, when he could block out the frightening event-to-come. When Alicia did not appear at the meal, Thomas cursed his clumsiness. One of the maids reported that the lady had retired to her chamber pleading a headache, but he knew the true cause of her distress.

  He had frightened her this afternoon with his heavy-handed, bumbling attempt at lovemaking. Never before had he allowed himself to lose control as he had done in the library. The depth of their kiss had shocked him as much as it did Alicia. The extreme pleasure of touching his betrothed and tasting her sweet mouth had completely overwhelmed him, making him forget his vow to treat her with the highest respect. He trembled inwardly when he relived that disgraceful scene in his mind. In his heart, Thomas knew that if Tavie had not interrupted them, he would have taken Alicia’s virginity on top of the desk—mounting her like an animal. No wonder the poor girl had trembled in his arms! He must have terrified her with his blind lust. A true knight did not ravish a princess.

  After supper, he gave into Mary’s pleadings and played a drawn-out game of chess, but his mind could not focus on the queens and rooks. Instead he thought of his own beautiful princess hiding in her chamber. He thought of her cheeks, soft as a downy chick. She fit so well within his arms—as if she had been created especially for him. He recalled the enticing curves of her body, especially when he had placed his hand against the small of her back, and pressed her against himself…

  His manroot stirred, then grew stiff at the memory. He shifted in his chair, crossed and recrossed his long legs in an effort to ease the ache between them.

  “Have you got fleas, Tom?” Mary asked, sweeping her bishop into an offensive position.

  He blinked. “Go to, imp! Neither my dogs nor I have the vermin. Ouch! Where did that bishop of York come from?”

  His sister giggled. “You were not paying attention. Shame on you! ‘Tis fleas, I warrant, no matter what you say. You are wriggling more than Tavie when he wants a bone.”