by Alexa Aston
But she found no one in the enormous bedchamber.
Nervously, she paced around the room, reluctant to return to the wardrobe until Curtis arrived.
“Ah, I see they brought the wine for us.”
Rosalyne turned and saw the nobleman standing beside a table. Two silver cups rested on it. He poured a wine of deep red into both and offered her one.
“Nay, I am not thirsty,” she said quickly. “I think I will return to my uncle now that I have seen the array of colors you possess. I will mix various shades that would enhance your appearance and let Uncle choose the one he prefers.”
He gave her a crafty look. “Surely, you have time for one glass of wine, my lady. I purchase it from the best vineyards and promise you ’tis the finest wine in all of Canterbury. I would say it even rivals what the king himself drinks at court.”
“I am not parched,” Rosalyne repeated firmly as she moved toward the door. She reached for the latch and tensed when Lord Botulf placed heavy hands on her shoulders.
Before she could shrug them off, he spun her around and pressed his body against hers, pinning her to the door. She opened her mouth to protest his actions and he forced his tongue inside her mouth. Rosalyne gagged as he attempted to kiss her. Where Edward’s kisses seemed heavenly, only revulsion filled her with this man’s tongue invading her.
Drawing her hands back, she slammed her palms against his chest, knocking him back a step.
Lord Botulf quickly recovered and, instead of anger, Rosalyne saw a glimmer of interest in his dark eyes.
“So, Lady Rosalyne, you like your love play to be rough? I appreciate a partner who tastes mirror my own.” His smile spoke of pure evil.
Rosalyne screamed.
Chapter 16
The scream ripped a hole in Edward’s soul, knowing Rosalyne was in peril. He raced down the corridor and shoved the door open.
Lord Botulf dragged a struggling Rosalyne across the room, one arm locked around her waist and a hand now covering her mouth to muffle any more attempted cries for help. She caught sight of Edward and ceased moving. Her eyes reflected her faith in him to remedy this situation.
“Release her,” he ordered.
Lord Botulf’s face reflected confusion at finding a stranger inside his bedchamber. Edward saw the nobleman tried to place where they had met as Botulf dropped his arms. Rosalyne, her head held high, walked with dignity across the room toward him.
When she reached him, she said, “Don’t kill him—even though he deserves it.”
“Find your uncle and return home,” Edward told her quietly. “I will see you there.”
He waited until she safely exited to confront Lord Botulf but the nobleman spoke first.
“I know you. You claimed to be a tenant of Templeton Parry. A common laborer working on my wall.”
“I am Sir Edward de Montfort, sent to Canterbury by King Richard the Second.”
Botulf’s eyes grew wary. “What business have you with me, de Montfort?”
Edward narrowed his eyes. “The king wanted to see how construction on the wall progressed. He understands it is a lengthy process and wanted to ensure all went well.”
“Does it?” Botulf challenged as he glared at him.
“You know how it fares. The king came to the throne with a depleted treasury, thanks to the lengthy wars in France and constant skirmishes with Scottish rebels. Yet, he still committed to the citizens of Canterbury, wanting to see them and their city safe from invading forces that could land in southeastern England.”
“I know all of this,” Botulf said dismissively. “The king and I spoke of it at length when construction first began.”
“Then you also know how the crown has been cheated, either by your design or Perceval Rawlin’s.”
Anger sparked in Botulf’s eyes. “I had nothing—”
Edward held a hand up. “Save your protests, my lord. After my investigation, I know just how much Rawlin profits—from overcharging for supplies to stealing a portion of the men’s wages each time they are paid.
“And I know he divides those gains with you.”
The anger in Botulf’s eyes died. They flickered now in fear.
“I could take you—and Rawlin—into custody today. But I won’t. Instead, I offer you a chance to reimburse the crown.”
Botulf grew flustered. “I wouldn’t know where to start,” he sputtered. “Or how much would be owed.”
“Oh, I think you do,” Edward said smoothly. “It may or may not save your head. That will be up to the king, of course.” He paused. “I will return at this time tomorrow and gauge the progress you have made regarding this matter.”
Defeat deflated the nobleman’s posture. “Thank you for the respite, Sir Edward. I will send for Rawlin now and clear up this matter.” Botulf studied him. “Mayhap I could personally fund all the work on the wall for the next five years. If it would please his majesty.”
“Make it ten.”
Botulf started to protest and thought better of it. “I will speak with you tomorrow, Sir Edward.”
Before he left, Edward had one more item to address. “If I hear of you touching any lady—especially Lady Rosalyne—I will personally have your head with no reprieve. Do I make myself clear?”
The nobleman nodded sullenly.
“Until tomorrow.”
Edward left the bedchamber and hurried from the house, eager to see Rosalyne. A groom told him he would fetch his horse. As Edward waited, the courtyard became a flurry of activity, with soldiers scurrying everywhere. Edward assumed a group had been tasked to bring Perceval Rawlin to meet with Lord Botulf.
The groom appeared with Sirius in hand and Edward mounted the horse, riding quickly to the Parry cottage. He secured his mount and entered the abode. Temp Parry sat at the table.
“Where is she?” Edward asked.
“With her chickens,” the artist replied.
“I love her,” Edward told the man. “I want to wed her. With your permission.”
“You have it.”
“Thank you.”
Edward went to the kitchen and then through the door leading to where the many chickens were kept outdoors. He spied Rosalyne at once, her eyes closed, stroking a hen sitting in her lap. He waited to speak, drinking her in. Sunlight struck her hair, turning it into shades of spun gold.
She must have sensed his presence because she opened her eyes and gave him a brilliant smile. Rising, she released the hen, which scampered toward a strutting rooster.
Opening his arms, Rosalyne stepped into them, her arms wrapping around his waist and her cheek resting against his beating heart. Edward enveloped her and simply held her, reveling in her warmth and scent.
“Thank you,” she murmured. “I knew you would come.”
He kissed the top of her head and cupped the nape of her neck in his hand.
“You are unharmed?” he asked.
“Aye.” She shuddered. “He kissed me, a most unpleasant experience but, other than that, I am all right.”
Rage burned through Edward at the thought of the liberties Botulf took with his beloved but he remained calm for her sake.
“What did you discover today?”
“That Perceval Rawlin and Lord Botulf are as corrupt as I expected,” he said. “When I confronted him, Botulf’s guilt led him to offer to personally fund the wall’s reconstruction for the next five years.” He paused. “I agreed to ten.”
Her eyes widened. “That is a fortune!”
“True,” he agreed. “But it goes to show how much Botulf has gotten by ill gain since the king appointed him to supervise the construction process.”
“What will happen now?”
“I plan to return tomorrow to speak with him again and then leave for London. Once I have discussed matters with the king, he will send a representative from the treasury to finalize the details Botulf agreed to and put them on paper.”
“Then Botulf will be legally responsibility for his promise?�
��
“Aye.”
Rosalyne hugged him tightly. “And what now for us, Edward? Once you report to the king?”
He stroked her hair, enjoying the silky feel of it against his fingertips. “Remember I told you I had an idea?”
She nodded.
“I want to bring you and Temp to court. To paint the queen’s portrait.”
*
Rosalyne thanked Metylda again for looking after the chickens that would be left behind. She hugged her friend more tightly than usual, not sure if she would see her again. Edward had asked Rosalyne not to speak to anyone about where they were going or their plans to wed. He told her he didn’t want any kind of information about them reaching Lord Botulf’s ears. From court, Edward knew information was a choice of weapon for some. He did not wish to give any advantage to Botulf.
Edward had met with the nobleman again to solidify their agreement. When Rosalyne asked what would happen to Perceval Rawlin, Edward merely shrugged. Something told her that he kept from her what might befall Rawlin—or what already had occurred. She suspected Rawlin would suffer for his role in scheming to defraud the king.
She watched as Edward helped her uncle into their wagon, which was loaded as usual when they left for a portrait painting session away from home. The back held not only their clothes but all of Uncle Temp’s painting supplies, from wood to pigments to brushes. Even a few wooden crates containing some of their best-laying hens accompanied them since they never knew where they went if they would have access to good eggs with fresh yolks to mix their paints.
Edward slipped his hands around her waist. “Do you mind driving the cart?” he asked.
“I have done so in the past,” she explained. “The last few times, when Uncle’s hands bothered him.”
“London is just over twenty leagues,” he said. “If you tire, let me know. We will stop and rest whenever you wish.”
He hoisted her to the driver’s seat and she settled in next to her uncle, taking up the reins. Edward mounted Sirius, his dark brown coat gleaming in the summer sun.
“I’ll ride slightly ahead to scout the road but I will always stay in sight,” he promised.
They traveled for three days until reaching London’s gates. Rosalyne marveled at how large the city was.
Uncle Temp laughed. “I haven’t been here in a score. Never thought I’d return.”
She glanced at his hands, nestled in his lap. Today was a good day and the tremors seemed held at bay. He had moved more slowly than usual, though, in recent days, and Rosalyne also noticed that he seemed slightly off-balance since they’d left Canterbury. She’d made sure to take his arm each time they’d left the cart, holding him steady when they went into inns to sup or stay the night.
“I thought Canterbury was huge. London seems thrice as large,” she said.
“It is an impressive place but the smells are thrice as worse.” He chuckled. “Lara enjoyed London, though.”
Rosalyne stilled. “You rarely speak of Mother.”
Temp shrugged. “I thought it made you sad to hear about her.”
“Nay!” she proclaimed. “I would enjoy hearing more about her.”
He sighed. “You resemble her a great deal, though your hair is lighter. Hers was a darker blond. But your features are the same, from your eyes to your mouth. Even your height is relatively the same now that you are a grown woman.”
“What else?” she asked eagerly.
“Oh, Lara was full of fun. She had a gaiety about her that drew people to her. She was friendly with everyone she met. People loved her.” He frowned.
“Is something the matter?”
“Nay,” he said brusquely. He looked around. “London is more crowded than the last time I visited.”
Rosalyne knew she would get no more from him regarding her mother. She wondered why he stopped speaking about her so abruptly. Why would the mention of everyone loving her bother him?
Edward slowed Sirius until she pulled the cart next to him. He said, “We are going to Sir Harry Pratt’s house. I am hoping that you and Temp will be able to stay with him.”
“We are not going to the palace?” She hoped she didn’t sound too disappointed.
He chuckled. “Nay, my love. I need to convince the king that the queen’s portrait must be painted before springing you and Temp on him.”
As he rode beside them, she asked, “How do you know Sir Harry?”
“Mother met him at court on one of her many visits there.”
“Your mother comes to court?”
Edward nodded. “Father served as an unofficial adviser to King Edward. The old king wished for Father to sit on his royal council but Father’s heart never lay in London. He loves Kinwick and the country and did not want to be away from Mother and his children for extended periods of time. Still, he would come frequently to London and, sometimes, Mother accompanied him. King Edward and Queen Philippa were quite fond of her. My sister, Alys, and my cousin, Avelyn, even served in the queen’s household.”
“Does Sir Harry act as an adviser at court?”
“He did for the old king. When Richard came to the throne, many things changed. Father and Mother rarely come to London now. But years ago, Mother helped Sir Harry’s wife, who went through a difficult time carrying her second babe. The child was born early and Mother moved in with Lady Ursula, caring for her and the child day and night. Eventually, the babe began to thrive and Lady Ursula returned to good health, birthing two more healthy sons. Sir Harry was grateful and told my parents if they ever needed anything, they could come to him.”
“And you are going to call and ask that we lodge with him?”
“Aye. Lady Ursula has passed on and Sir Harry’s sons and daughter are grown. I think he would enjoy the company and be pleased that the favor has finally been claimed.”
They arrived at Sir Harry’s residence, a grand house on a busy London street.
“Wait here,” Edward told them. “I won’t be long.”
True to his word, Edward returned a few minutes later, grinning from ear to ear. Accompanying him was a short, rotund man with sparkling blue eyes.
“This is Sir Harry Pratt,” Edward said. “He insisted upon greeting you himself.”
Edward assisted her and then Temp from the wagon.
Sir Harry kissed Rosalyne’s hand and welcomed Temp. “Edward told me you need a place to stay while in London.” He glanced around at the wagon. “And your chickens, too, I see.”
“We brought them for their eggs,” Rosalyne explained. “We use the yolks to mix our egg tempera paints.”
“Edward told me you both are painters.” Sir Harry rubbed his hands together in glee, much as a small boy might. “I am delighted to have you stay with me. I look upon Lord Geoffrey and Lady Merryn as family.” He winked at her. “And Edward tells me that you will soon be family to him, my lady.”
Sir Harry took her arm and began leading her to the entrance of the house. “I want to hear all about painting. Did your uncle teach you? Do you paint portraits as he does?” He paused. “Mayhap, I should have mine done. That would be exciting.”
Rosalyne looked over her shoulder and saw that Edward had taken Uncle Temp’s arm and escorted him.
“We would like to repay you for your generosity in allowing us to stay with you, Sir Harry. Painting your portrait would be a small way of saying thanks.”
He beamed with pleasure. “Excellent idea, Lady Rosalyne.”
“Harry?” a voice called out from a distance.
She turned and saw a man riding toward them. He leapt from his horse and raced toward them. For a moment, she worried that he might do them harm by the odd look on his face.
The bearded man pulled up just short of them and stared at her, speechless. Rosalyne grew uncomfortable.
“Greetings, Benedict,” Sir Harry said. “Meet my guests. This is—”
“Lara,” the newcomer said, his gaze boring a hole into her. “Lara,” he repeated.
&
nbsp; “Nay, my lord,” she said, her voice trembling.
“I am sorry,” he apologized, shaking his head. “My heart knows you are not Lara. You are Rosalyne. Rosalyne Bowyar.”
“How do you know this?” she demanded, afraid to hear his response.
“Because I am your uncle. Benedict Bowyar. And I loved your mother with all my heart.”
Chapter 17
This man was her uncle?
“You … you … loved my mother?” Rosalyne asked.
Uncle Temp stepped between them. “Get away from her!” he ordered. “You wanted nothing to do with her then, Benedict. Leave her be now.”
“You know the truth, Temp.”
“I know that you were not man enough to stand up to that witch of a wife.” Temp began to sway.
Both Rosalyne and Edward grabbed an elbow to keep him upright as Sir Harry looked on with unabashed interest.
“Shall we take this inside?” their host asked. “I am curious to hear what Benedict has to say regarding this matter.”
“Only if Rosalyne agrees,” Edward said.
She looked at him and nodded.
“Come, Temp. Lean on me,” Edward ordered. “Rosalyne deserves whatever truth this man utters and you can tell her if he speaks right from wrong.”
Sir Harry took her arm again. “Let me escort you inside, Lady Rosalyne.” The nobleman looked back to his friend. “Benedict, please accompany us.”
The group entered the house, with Sir Harry leading them to a large room with ample seating. Edward lowered Temp into a chair and asked that wine be brought as the older man mopped the sweat from his brow.
Rosalyne took a seat next to her uncle—and stared at the other man who claimed to be a different uncle of hers, a relative from her father’s side. They sat in silence until a servant brought refreshments for them all. Temp took a sip and sighed.
“Are you certain you are well, Uncle?” she asked. When he nodded, she said, “Then I want to hear what this man has to say.”
