by Ruth Kaufman
She curtseyed to Margaret, who was propped up by piles of pillows and dressed in long robes. Perhaps Margaret wished to while away the time discussing Christine de Pizan or to recommend another book for her to read. Or maybe she was ready to enlist Amice as her scribe, as she’d suggested. If so, there was no way to refuse. But how would she handle working for York and Margaret, hostile, bitter opponents?
“I have news for you. I have found you another groom. Your third, is it not?” Margaret wasted no time on pleasantries, clearly uncomfortable in her final days of pregnancy and bored with her long lying-in.
Amice looked at her shoes, flushing as other ladies hid laughter or snide whispers behind their hands. Chilling fear wiped away her smile. What could she say? She was supposed to appear pleased that Queen Margaret had not only thought of her yet again, but had gone to such trouble on her behalf at such a time.
“You’ll wed in a week’s time, that the event might take place before the prince or princess arrives,” the queen added, patting her large midsection. “Well, Lady Amice? Have you nothing to say? Aren’t you curious about his name and standing?”
Margaret didn’t wait for Amice to answer, which was a good thing, for her throat had gone dry and her imagination had fled.
“He’s of the House of York, and highly ranked. Sir James Bourchier is his name. He’s one of York’s closest advisors as well as a relation of the Duke of Norfolk. This marriage is to show our good faith, to attempt to bind our factions. I wasn’t the proponent of this union, but others on the privy council persuaded me it would be for the best.”
Amice flushed again. Guilt washed over her like a cold rain, knowing that Margaret’s hope for unity through her marriage was a sham. She might reside with the Lancasters at their command, appear to be one of them, but her political heart was with the Yorkists. By now the duke himself knew this, too.
How had she ended up in such a quagmire? She hadn’t meant to be duplicitous. Each small step seemed the right choice. For her country. She and Nicholas didn’t see eye to eye, but she believed as he did that each had a duty to serve England. The sticking point was who to follow.
Men often used women as powerless pawns in their need for power, money and land. But Amice knew her situation placed her below even the lowliest piece in a chess game. The Yorkists would be laughing behind Margaret’s back, claiming another victory. One of their own would be viewed as a symbol of the Lancasters.
Amice was trapped. If she told Margaret she’d aided York, she could be punished and likely found guilty of treason. A vision of herself about to be hanged, drawn and quartered flashed in her mind, causing an unwelcome shudder. If she said nothing and Margaret found out, all would be lost. Would York and his supporters come to her aid then?
If her secret remained hidden, she’d suffer nonetheless, for she’d live with remorse. Amice would know that by aiding the queen in going through with this marriage, she was also deceiving her. Belinda would know, too. She could be trusted only because if Amice’s involvement were revealed, so would hers.
The good of the country was more important than offending the queen. Amice had to do as she thought best. And support those she believed in.
Margaret gasped, then brushed away the women who rushed to her side. “It’s nothing. Now, Amice, what have you to say?”
Nicholas, are you lost to me forever?
Amice stood tall, hands folded before her as if she were calm. She’d made up her mind. There was only one course of action she could take.
“Your Grace, though I thank you for your many kindnesses to me, I cannot marry Sir James.”
The silence in the room weighed heavily on her shoulders. No one moved, or breathed. Not even a gem dared to sparkle in the face of such outrageous defiance.
Margaret tilted her head. “Did I hear aright? You dare to refuse a royal command?”
The other women stared at her as if she were the newest addition to the menagerie.
“I’m truly sorry, Your Grace. But I must refuse.” Her insides churned.
What had she done? Amice stood her ground, despite the urge to fall to her knees and beg forgiveness. Lacking time to consider her options fully, she’d chosen the middle road. She wouldn’t reveal her Yorkist ties or leanings, but wouldn’t accept the marriage either. It was the only way Amice knew to be true to herself, York and the queen. She raised her chin, desperately forcing away nervousness and fear as the queen’s beautiful face blotched red.
“You’re too intelligent for your own good,” Margaret snapped. “I know you’ve read every book we possess. What, pray tell, is your reason for such defiance?”
If she knew what I’d done…. Amice hadn’t thought far enough ahead to come up with an explanation. Her knees shook beneath her thick skirts, but she wouldn’t show the queen how afraid she was.
The circle of women was silent and motionless.
“I simply do not wish to wed again, Your Grace. I have, as you know, lost two men. I remain willing to pay a fine to make up for your loss of an alliance. I’ve heard the royal treasury has suffered significant losses. It would be an honor to provide additional revenues for your coffers.”
Margaret’s face turned redder. She sat up straight. “You have the nerve to cite the crown’s financial difficulties? Lady Amice, I shall grant you two choices, neither of which you deserve. You will marry Sir James in one week, or stay locked up in the Tower until I decide what else to do with you or you come to your senses,” the queen proclaimed.
Amice couldn’t speak. Her worst fears had come to pass. Thrown into the Tower like a traitor, when she’d only wanted to serve her country. How could doing what she felt was right turn out so wrong? Could she truly go against the direct order of her sovereign?
“In the meantime, like the misbehaving child you resemble, you’ll be refused all food and water,” Margaret added.
Gasps echoed through the room, but no one dared speak in Amice’s defense. The Tower was bad enough, but to deny sustenance? Few women had been imprisoned in the Tower for any reason. None had heard of such a punishment for a woman, but then again, none had seen such open defiance of the queen’s wishes.
Amice swallowed. What to do? She could make no other choice.
Margaret waved two women toward Amice. Belinda and Rose each grasped an arm to lead her out of the queen’s private lying-in chamber, where no men were allowed, so she could be turned over to the guards. Amice met Belinda’s gaze, surprised to see unfeigned concern. She must fear for her own safety if Amice decided to unburden her tale.
As they led her away, Amice held her head high. Please don’t let Nicholas see this. Even as the words passed through her mind, there he was, close enough to overhear one of the women telling a man-at-arms where to take her. Had Nicholas been waiting for her? Had he known what Margaret was going to say? Her heart sank further at the thought that he might have known the queen’s intent, even as early as last night. Their sole night of shared passion.
Amice could see rage growing inside Nicholas like a living thing, but he didn’t stop the man-at-arms from taking Amice’s arm.
“What has she done to deserve the Tower?” he demanded.
Rose answered with a smug smile. “She refuses to marry the latest man the queen orders her to wed. She’s being sent to the Tower to consider her options.”
Amice twisted to glance at him as the guard pushed her toward the door. Nicholas looked on helplessly.
Chapter 13
Hours later, Amice paced her damp, cold Tower room. It was narrow, with sparse furnishings and one tiny window set high and deep into the stone wall. If she were allowed, as some prisoners were, she’d pay to have some of her own possessions brought. If she had to stay here long enough to need them.
She sighed. All she’d wanted was a family to cherish because hers had been taken away, to watch Castle Rising prosper under her care, and the opportunity to write. She hadn’t sought out court or political intrigue, yet was steeped in it
literally up to her neck.
A bitter smile lifted her lips. Only a few short months ago Harry tried to force her to marry him by starving her in a locked room. Now, here she was, locked up and denied food once again because she didn’t want to marry. Before, she’d escaped. There was no escaping the Tower. Even if she could get free, there was nowhere to run from the queen’s wrath.
Darkness descended. Already it seemed she’d been imprisoned for a week. The walls closed in more and more every minute, the damp air hard to breathe. She lit the candle, then stared at the flickering light.
One candle wouldn’t last very long. Was she expected to sit in the dark, without even a glimmer of light and hope? A shudder raced through her at the thought of the disgusting creatures that might crawl out of the ancient Tower without light to keep them at bay.
“Guard!”
No answer. Very likely he hadn’t heard her through the thick walls.
“Guard!” Yelling as loud as she could strained her throat. “Another candle, please. Please.”
No answer.
She sat on the stool in defeat. Oh, for some frumenty pudding, sweetened with cinnamon and almonds. Maia’s fresh white bread. Her mouth watered.
What if Margaret had her baby and forgot about her? Maybe hunger and thirst would force her to submit. She was helpless, unless Nicholas chose to and could find some way out.
There was nothing she could do but starve for her honor or give in and live with deception. She struggled to keep back taunting tears of self-pity, but a few spilled down her cheeks before she regained control. Never before had she so needed comfort, but she was well and truly alone. She closed her eyes, remembering the comfort and warmth of being in Nicholas’s arms. For a brief moment, she thought she felt him. Finally, tears still damp on her skin, she lay on the narrow cot and fell into a troubled sleep.
The next morning, Amice combed her hair as best she could with her fingers, taking great care with each tangled curl. After all, she had nothing but time. They hadn’t brought water for washing, probably for fear she’d defy Margaret’s orders by drinking it. She’d tried again—just as unsuccessfully—to have the Tower guard attend her, shouting her throat raw with her pleas. Four days had passed, she noted from small marks she’d scraped on the wall with her fingernail. She tried to save her strength, though for what she didn’t know. Hunger was her only companion, her throat was beyond parched. When dizziness overcame her, she slept, no matter if it was day or night.
Had she wanted to capitulate, there was no one to tell. The chamber pot had long ago filled and smelled so bad she had to breathe through her mouth. She’d thought to fling its contents out the window, but it was too high to reach and she lacked the energy. At night she lay in the darkest dark, steeling herself not to jump at every scratch and squeak.
She had no way to contact her cousin Cromwell and ask if he’d use his influence to free her. The only other true friend close to the king she had was Nicholas. If he’d been able to or wanted to help she wouldn’t be here still. But despite his apparent abandonment, she had nothing else to think of.
Was she being punished for wanting other than what she had, or was this her penalty for loving Nicholas? Was it wrong to want her life at Castle Rising instead of being grateful for the king’s and queen’s interest in her marriage?
Castle Rising. Just the thought of her wonderful home lightened her mood a little. It would be well past harvest by now, the first she’d missed. She loved this time of year, when villagers and tenants reaped the benefits of their hard work.
She hadn’t even marked the passing of Michaelmas on September 29. Everyone at Castle Rising was so happy then, with all sorts of fairs and games. The end of one farming year and the start of the next had been her favorite.
Amice envisioned herself at Castle Rising, writing at her desk, contented. Late afternoon sun on a crisp autumn day shone through the glass windows. Nicholas was there. They were happily married, of course. She’d spent so many imprisoned hours imagining their wedding day she was beginning to believe it had happened.
As her husband, in her imagination, Nicholas was free to show his affection for her. He was so handsome, and deeply tanned again from working in the sun. His shirt was unlaced so she could glimpse the muscles on his chest. Her heart contracted with love at the sight of him.
A smile lit his brilliant blue eyes. He bent over her and kissed her neck, right in the crook where it met her shoulder. She concentrated harder on the image, and a shiver ran through her at his touch. He told her to close her eyes, and because she trusted him, she did. Robert was nearby, laughing, obviously in on the surprise.
Suddenly there was a scratchy wetness on her hands. She opened her eyes to see a tiny greyhound puppy marching about in her lap, seeking a comfortable spot as it licked her fingers. She laughed delightedly, hugging it close. Her eyes filled with tears of happiness that she’d be so lucky to have so thoughtful a husband. That she was in love. She jumped up to thank him with a hug, trying not to squish the pup between them as it scrabbled to gain hold on her gown. Their lips met….
The wonderful image popped like a soap bubble with loud pounding at the door, returning her to grim reality. Why bother to knock? She was a prisoner. They’d come to question her at last. She pushed off the cot with her hands, tried to stand, but her legs were too weak. She couldn’t have risen if her visitor were the king himself. But then, these days he couldn’t walk unassisted, either.
The heavy wooden door opened with the high-pitched creak of disuse.
A tall figure entered her cell. She couldn’t breathe. Nicholas. Her mouth was too dry for words, but tearless sobs of relief shook her.
He looked almost as awful as she must. His hair was tousled, his skin taut over his cheekbones. “Amice, I’m so sorry it took me so long to free you. All will be well soon, you’ll see.”
The sound of his voice was more welcome than water for her parched throat. Effortlessly lifting her from the narrow, straw-filled cot, he carried her down the spiral stairs and into the sunshine. When she recoiled at the bright light, he turned her face into his chest and smoothed her hair, making soft, shushing sounds. She was tired, so tired she couldn’t even bring herself to ask how he’d saved her.
When she awoke in her room at Westminster, Nicholas was by her side. She tried to speak, but no sound came out. Her eyes filled with tears.
“I’m here. You’re safe.” Nicholas touched her cheek, calming her. “Don’t talk yet. Have some broth first.”
He uncovered a bowl on a nearby table, then fed her spoon by spoon until she had finished. She drank in the sight of him as she drank the healing soup.
She squeaked out a question. “How?”
“I tried to convince the queen to let you go,” he said, setting the bowl aside. “We had to communicate through messengers, of course, because of her lying-in. Since I couldn’t go to her, it took more time. She refused to help. Finally I thought to send word to your cousin Cromwell. Reaching him took more time. He was appalled at the way you had been treated and was able to secure your freedom through his influence with the council. Margaret wouldn’t apologize to him and won’t to you. Obviously she doesn’t like having her word countermanded, but I do think she regrets the harshness of her sentence. When you recover, all will be well.”
He’d gone to great lengths to save her. If Nicholas found out what she had been doing, would he still care for her?
It had started out so simply when she overheard Belinda reading that letter. All she’d wanted to do was assist the cause she believed in. What harm could there be in copying a few documents for York? But there had been another request, and another.
Nicholas would be horrified if he knew. Nicholas, who had rescued her. Who cared for her. Who believed what she did not, both in his faith and his politics.
“How did you manage this?”
“Cromwell did it. He sent Margaret a message saying she had no right to force you to wed as you aren’t t
he king’s ward but a widow with properties in your own right. In addition, he convinced her that she and Henry need the money you’d pay as much or more as they need the alliance. He stated the obvious, that they could find Bourchier another bride to bind the houses. In a way, I think Margaret was impressed that you dared defy her will. Not many people risk going against the wishes of the king and queen.”
Amice wasn’t proud, just so very relieved that she wouldn’t have to marry, at least the latest candidate. She’d bought some time. But she owed her cousin yet another debt. And she owed Nicholas.
“You’re here…with me.”
He smiled and took her hand. Any connection to him was welcome. Too welcome.
“I’m still your protector. Your champion,” he said.
Amice pulled her hand free and turned her head. She couldn’t face the goodness in his eyes. But she lacked the strength to explain. Lacked the courage. “What happens now?”
“When you feel up to it, you’re to have another meeting with the queen. That is, if she doesn’t give birth; the babe is expected at any time. The queen has returned you to your former status. Things are as they were.”
She couldn’t agree. The days of utter solitude, darkness and silence except for the rats had changed her. Hardened her. She knew what it was to have absolutely nothing, to suffer deprivation, which made her more determined than ever to achieve her dreams.
The aid to York would stop. England mattered naught to her now. The huge causes Nicholas espoused and in which she’d come to believe couldn’t help her gain what she desired. Peace. She could battle herself, fight her own civil war, no longer.
“Nicholas. I can’t thank you enough for your assistance. But we mustn’t be alone again.” She drew in a slow breath to keep from crying. “Being with you makes me want things we can’t have. Makes me want…. But we have no future.”
“I thought we agreed that life is too short—”
