Rosie picked up the brush and ran her fingers through its thick bristles. “Haint a—”
Sir Andrew held up his hand for silence. Both Rosie and Jeremy looked at him with expectation. What was wrong now? she wondered.
“Let us begin with your first and most important lesson, Rosie. Haint is not a recognized word in the English tongue, save among certain types of lowlife that you have recently abandoned. You will banish that foul sound from your mouth this instant. Say ‘I have never.”
Rosie gripped the brush. “Pray, what happens if I forget?”
Sir Andrew pointed dramatically to the slate propped against his books. “Then I will deduct one—”
“Aw-uu,” she wailed.
“Halfpenny each time that you do,” he continued.
Rosie narrowed her eyes. “Ye be a cold-blooded fish! I will never make a sixpence in a month of Sundays, let alone ten days!”
Her rebuke only amused her tormentor. “While we are on the subject, you will also banish the word ye. Tis out of fashion. The proper word is you. Pray, remember that.”
Pushed to the limits of her endurance, Rosie drew in a deep breath, then exploded. “You, my lord, are the most cold-blooded fish that ever I did see on a market day, and furthermore, you prattle like a…a jackdaw in love with his own croak!”
Tossing all caution aside, she pointed to Jeremy who had turned red in the face from stifling his mirth. “And you! You are in the worst rank of manhood, for you are only half-done!” She crossed her arms over her heaving breasts. “There now, my lord. Does my pretty speech please you?”
Chapter Six
Sir Andrew’s brows rose almost to his hairline while Jeremy looked like he had been hit on the head with a shovel. Rosie wanted to laugh at both of them, but realized that she had gone far enough already. Perhaps too far, but she could not recall her angry words now.
Then Andrew burst into laughter. He clapped his hands as if applauding a fine performance by a juggler. “Bravo, my dear! You have won this round! Mark you, Jeremy, you and I may be nimble with a sword or lance, but this fair lady jousts with speech and a marvelous wit. She speaks daggers and every word stabs the soul.”
The squire merely glared at her. With quaking knees, Rosie waited for Sir Andrew to deliver a blow across her rash mouth. Instead, he took up the slate and drew three thick lines upon it.
“Behold, three pennies earned before you have even brushed your hair.” He pointed to his chair. “Sit!” he commanded.
She slid into place. Sir Andrew took the brush from her slack fingers and began to draw it through her tangles.
“Second lesson—from now on you will consider yourself a high-born lady. You will think like one, talk like one and act like one.”
Rosie scratched the bridge of her nose. “Methinks your fancy is the child of an idle brain,” she murmured. The even strokes of the brush soothed her injured pride and stormy temper. She leaned against the back of her chair and closed her eyes.
“Aye,” he murmured as he worked through her hair, “but there is method in my madness.” He stepped around and regarded her. “By the book, Rosie! You are as fair a flower as any in King Henry’s court. I forbid you ever to allow your tresses to fly wild again. Twould be a sin against the goddess of beauty.”
A hot flush stole over Rosie’s cheeks. She looked down at her hands clasped in her lap. “Not so neither, my lord,” she mumbled. His kindness made her feel even more ashamed of her outburst.
Sir Andrew grinned. “My words to the letter.” He snapped his fingers at Jeremy. “Attend me, sluggard! The green doublet—at once!”
His squire blinked, cast Rosie another quick glance, then scuttled to one of the larger coffers. He withdrew a long bundle and unwrapped its unbleached muslin covering. Rosie blinked when she saw the elegant coat of forest green velvet, its wide sleeves slashed with panes of cinnamon-colored satin. Gold edged the neckline. Alternating panes of green velvet and brown satin on the knee-length galligaskins matched the jacket.
Jeremy shook out the garments. “The sun is still below its midpoint, my lord, yet the day waxes hot. Methinks you will find this too warm.”
Sir Andrew shrugged. “Aye, but knowing that everyone else in this accursed valley will be equally uncomfortable gives me a measure of cold comfort. You note how we are slaves to fashion, Rosie?”
She could only nod in agreement. She watched with a mixture of shock and fascination as he tied three little golden bells to the points of his white, satin-covered codpiece. When he had finished, he wiggled his hips to make them jingle.
Spying her interest, he jingled them a second time. “Pray give me your honest opinion, Rosie. Do my accessories please you?”
A dozen answers crowded her tongue, none of which she dared give voice. Finally she replied, “Past all words, my lord.”
Sir Andrew clapped and rubbed his hands together. “Excellent! I go to visit a lady and she will expect a gladsome appearance.” He stepped into his breeches that Jeremy held for him. The bedecked codpiece stood out even more alarmingly against the green velvet.
An unexpected dart of envy pricked Rosie. She brushed her hair with short, hard strokes. No wonder Sir Andrew had not bedded her last night! He had a mistress who liked expensive clothes and bells in unusual places. Why should that matter to Rosie? She did not want Sir Andrew as a lover, but as her means of escape from her past.
Sir Andrew thrust his arms into his doublet. While his squire fastened the gold-and-pearl buttons, he cocked his head at her.
“How now, my sweet? Your face looks like a rain cloud.”
Rosie swiveled away from his gaze. “Tis nothing.”
“Ha!” he roared behind her. She jumped and looked back over her shoulder. Jeremy laid a wide gold chain around Sir Andrew’s neck.
He winked at her. “Allow me to divine your displeasure. You think I am decking myself to sport with a lady, do you not?”
Rosie wondered if he could read her mind. She hid her surprise with a dismissive shrug. “It matters naught to me what ye do, my lord. Ye—that is, you are free to sport where you will and none can say naught against you. I am merely your chattel and have no say in the matter whatsoever.”
“Aha, Jeremy, I was correct! Yon frowning sprite thinks I will have a bit of morning’s pleasure afore our dinner,” he remarked.
Rosie pretended to ignore him, but her jealousy festered.
Sir Andrew crossed to her side. Lifting her chin with his fingers, he forced her to look into hazel eyes that twinkled with merriment. “I give you thanks for your concern, but I have no such plans. I am going to visit Lady Mary Washburne, a cheerful lass whom I have known since she was in leading strings. I was in her brother’s service. Lady Mary takes great delight in all manner of singing, dancing, masking, games—and disguising. If I am my most charming to her, mayhap she will lend me some of her gowns and fripperies.”
Rosie furrowed her brows. “Ye—I mean you seek to disguise yourself as a woman?” She had been right to think he was addlepated.
Both men laughed. When he caught his breath, Sir Andrew replied, “Nay, Rosie, I am not inclined in that direction. The gowns are for ye!”
“You,” she corrected him. Then she realized what he had said. “You are daft! No lady would part with so much as a shift for the likes of me. We peasants are a foul and gamy lot, or haven’t you heard that tale?”
He caressed her chin with the pad of his thumb. “Oh, aye, but you are a lady now. I washed away the farmyard last night.”
Rosie sighed. “Twill take more than soap to do that, my lord.”
He leaned closer. “You have hit the nut and core of the problem, my dear. Most excellent wench! Tis why I must cozen a gown or two for you. You cannot go abroad clothed in just my nightshirt—fetching though you look in that scant attire.”
She rubbed the side of her nose. “What am I to do while you are gone, my lord?” She hoped he would suggest that she eat something.
Sir
Andrew grew serious. “Do not go outside,” he warned her. “Lord Hogsworthy is not a gracious loser, and he may try to abduct you by force. Jeremy, I hold you bound to protect my lady, and for entertainment…” He lifted a large green leather-bound book from the pile on his coffer. “Stand up, my dear.” When Rosie did so, he balanced the book on the top of her head. “You may while away the hour by walking up and down with my songbook on your head.”
She crossed her eyes trying to look at it while not dropping it. She dare not tell him that this idea was the silliest suggestion he had yet proposed. “Tis heavy,” she muttered.
He nodded with a grin. “Aye, tis a weighty tome, I warrant you, but tis filled with many a light and winsome air. And, my dear Rosie, the book is very expensive. Mind that you do not drop it.”
Rosie stiffened. “May I ask why I am a-standing here like a bloody trained bear with this blessed book on my head?”
He chuckled. “Tis to help you with your posture. Now walk—go to.”
Rosie took a hesitant step. The book slid off to one side. Jeremy caught it before it hit the ground.
Sir Andrew rubbed his hands together. “Excellent! I see that you two will work well together. Rosie, do not look at your feet when you walk. Stare straight ahead and pull back your shoulders. There’s a good lass. A penny if you can do it upon my return.”
Rosie hefted the song book. “Tis a mickle heavy, my lord. Surely balancing it is worth two pennies.” She gave him a smile that she hoped would sweeten his decision.
He laughed in a deep jovial way. “Rosie, you will make a better businesswoman than a lady if I am not careful. Tis agreed. Two pennies if you can traverse my rug without a fall.”
Rosie smiled with true joy this time. “Thank ye—you, my lord.”
Sir Andrew clapped a hand on Jeremy’s shoulder. “And my squire will instruct you in the proper form.”
It was the boy’s turn to goggle. “Me, my lord? But I have the soiled clothing to deliver to the laundress, and your armor to buff and—”
Sir Andrew shook him a little. “Most importantly, you have my sweet lady Rosie to guard, to guide and to cherish in my absence. And you will behave as a proper gentleman to her or I will flay you by inches. Are we understood, maltworm?”
The squire’s cheeks turned a mottled red. “Aye, my lord.”
Sir Andrew caught up a green velvet sack cap and smoothed the white feather that adorned its gold embroidered headband. “Delighted to hear that, my boy. And now, my fair lady, I bide you adieu until dinner time. I leave you to the tender mercies of my good squire who will gladly be your slave until my return.”
At the entrance, he executed a flourishing bow to Rosie and the fuming Jeremy. “Smile and be of good cheer, my chicks. God has sent us a fine day wherein we will roast ourselves. Fare thee well!” He lifted the tent flap and disappeared, whistling a cheery tune.
Rosie and Jeremy glowered at each other.
“You heard my lord. Put the book on your head and walk,” the squire growled. “And mind you do not drop it.”
Without giving her another glance, he went over to Sir Andrew’s great bed and began to straighten the bedclothes. When she was sure he couldn’t see her, Rosie stuck her tongue out at him.
“Ye are supposed to help me to learn this tomfoolery.”
Jeremy plumped one of the pillows. “The word is you not ye, and I have my duties to perform. So do you, so shut your mouth and attend to your work.” He punched a second pillow with vehemence before arranging it against the gilded headboard.
Rosie watched him while he completed the bed making. Pointedly ignoring her, he then picked up a clothes brush and proceeded to work on the crimson doublet that Sir Andrew had worn the night before.
“You have not taken a step,” he remarked.
Rosie put the book on her head, squared her shoulders, stared at one of the hanging lanterns and lifted her right foot. The book wobbled. She paused, then moved her left foot. The book teetered, then slipped off. She caught it.
Jeremy snickered. “Mayhap you have a pointed head,” he suggested.
Rosie held the book close to her as if it would shield her from the squire’s open hostility. “Ye do not like me much, do ye?”
He looked up at her. “Say ‘you’ instead of ‘ye,’ and perchance I will give you an answer.”
If the songbook had not been so expensive, Rosie would have thrown it at him. “You hate me, don’t you?”
Jeremy looked her up and down as if she were a piece of bog slime that had crawled into his life. “Well aimed for such a jade as you. But to answer your question, as long as tis Sir Andrew’s fancy to pretend that you are a lady, so will I. But once he has grown tired of the game, then I will treat you as you really are—a guttersnipe.”
His blunt words hurt her far more than she had expected. She bit her little fingernail. “How now? The pot calls the kettle black?”
Jeremy put down the doublet and brush on the center table then stood. Though he was younger than she, the youth was taller by several inches. Rosie sensed a raw strength that the boy kept barely in check.
“Exactly who do you think I am, wench?” he growled.
Rosie gripped the book tighter. “One like me. We both serve Sir Andrew. I attend to his mad fancies while you empty his slops!”
Jeremy balled his hands into fists. Rosie braced herself, and prepared to ward off his blow with the book. She had had many years of experience defending herself from her foster father’s insane rages.
Jeremy jutted out his chin. “Is that what you think a squire is?”
Rosie took one step backward. “Aye, you are a body servant to your master. You wash his clothes, dress him and serve his dinner. How does that make ye any better than me?”
He gave her a half smile. “You have never met a squire before?”
“Oh, aye, squires are a dozen a farthing at a goose fair.”
Instead of growing angrier, Jeremy softened his stance. “Do you even know what an apprentice is?”
Rosie narrowed her eyes with suspicion. “’Course I do,” she answered warily. “Tis one who learns a trade from a master.”
Jeremy nodded. “Aye, you have hit the mark. A squire is an apprentice knight. In five years or so, I hope to win my spurs.”
Rosie giggled. “Ye hope to learn how to fight from Sir Andrew?”
“Aye, tis a privilege and an honor to be his squire. Sir Andrew is one of the finest swordsmen in England.”
Rosie could not control her burst of laughter. “Tis a rich jest, Jeremy! Methinks the only blade Sir Andrew has mastered is his eating knife.”
The squire took a step closer to her. “Watch your tongue lest it sting you. My lord is as great a knight as any in the king’s court. And none can match him on the archery range.”
Rosie held her ground. She refused to let this quirt frighten her. “Tittle-tattle! Tell me, squire, is there anything that this perfect knight of yours cannot do? Has he no faults?”
The boy’s pretty face transformed itself into a cold mask of anger. “Sir Andrew is adept in all manner of things, except—in truth, he does not ride well in the joust. But my lord sits upon a horse far better than you, I warrant. His horsemanship is no matter to me. I am proud to serve him and to learn from him. He was sword master for both the Earl of Thornbury’s sons as well as my Lord Stafford. Those three knights have already won many prizes here. One day I hope to be as good as they.”
A little bell of warning rang in the back of Rosie’s mind. “Are all knights gentle-born?”
Jeremy nodded gravely. “They are indeed.”
She took a step backward. “Are you?” she whispered.
He drew himself up then gave her a little bow. “You have the honor to address Jeremy Arthur Metcalf, eldest son and heir of Sir William Metcalf, the undersecretary to His Grace, our good King Henry VIII.”
A sudden trembling seized Rosie. “Send me straight to hell,” she moaned more to herself than to Jeremy.
She turned away from him and grasped the center tent pole for support. She chewed on her thumbnail. What a fool she had been! Why hadn’t Sir Andrew told her? A sob escaped her lips before she could catch it.
“Why are you crying?” the boy asked gently.
“Haint crying,” she sniffed, trying to stop herself. “I never cry!”
Jeremy circled around the pole, then knelt so that he could look up into her face. His former cold expression changed to concern. “Forgive me, I did not mean to frighten you.”
She wiped her face with her sleeve and turned away from his pitying looks. “Haint afeard. Only weaklings are afraid of blustering boys. Ye took me by surprise, tis all. I had thought that we were alike—both servants. Now I find I am truly alone—once again.”
Jeremy’s eyes mirrored her pain. “Where did you come from, Rosie?”
She gave him a sour grin. “From God—or so I have been told, but I do not think so. A most ungentle fortune placed me in that goose yard.” She lowered her lashes to hide the painful memories of her childhood.
“I was a ward of Saint Giles’ Church in Stoke Poges. The priest found me a-wailing on the altar steps and clutching a gold sovereign. He gave me to Mistress Barstow since she had just lost her own babe to a fever. Her husband was glad enough to have the money, but he refused to give me a last name. He said I was spawned in sin. Tis why I am just plain Rosie. I never had a comfortable life like you do. Old man Barstow sold me to Quince for five bloody shillings. How much is your life worth, Sir Jeremy?”
The boy scrambled to his feet. His face had lost all its color. “I am not yet a knight, Rosie, so just call me Jeremy.” He offered her his arm. “And I will be your supporter, if you will give me leave.”
She was too startled by his sudden offer to make any objection. Instead, she took his arm. He balanced the heavy book on her head.
“Chin up, Rosie. Look straight ahead and take small steps.”
Together, they crossed the ornate rug in silent concentration. After a successful return trip, she glanced at the boy out of the corner of her eye. “My thanks, Jer…Jeremy. And, I swear…haint a strumpet.”
Lady of the Knight Page 7
