Lady of the Knight

by Tori Phillips

  He returned the barest whisper of a smile. “You should say ‘I am not a harlot.’ And time will tell the truth of that tale.”

  She answered him with a desperate firmness. “I am not a harlot—not now, not ever. I vow I will die first.”

  Chapter Seven

  Lady Mary Cavendish Washburne laughed merrily. “Hoy day, sweet Andrew! Methinks this is the maddest prank of your career yet! Are you sure you have not overindulged in wine so early in the morning?”

  Andrew smiled at her amusement. So far, his visit had gone very well. “Nay, Mary, I am as sober as a cleric in the confessional.”

  The lady arched one of her fine eyebrows. “Oh? Our priest often has a tipple or two before shrift. I suspect that is the only thing that keeps him sane while listening to all our sins, offenses and negligences.” Another gale of infectious laughter interrupted her further observations.

  Andrew mopped his damp brow with a fresh cambric handkerchief. The air was stifling inside Lord Washburne’s dark blue canvas pavilion. He quaffed some of the cool ale that Lady Mary’s handmaid had served. Thus fortified, he steered the conversation to his purpose.

  “I assure you that I am quite serious, Mary. In eleven days, I will escort Rosie to the king’s farewell banquet and all the court will think she is a well-bred lady. My lass has already proven to be an apt pupil, though I admit she is sadly lacking in a few essentials.”

  “Such as a noble birth, an education in the rudiments of etiquette, a knowledge of dancing and so on?” Lady Mary giggled behind her fan.

  Andrew cleared his throat. “Rosie sorely needs the proper clothing, and thereby hangs my tale.”

  “Aha!” Mary’s blue eyes twinkled with mischief. “Exactly what items does she need? Pray, Andrew, try to be specific.”

  He shrugged in mock helplessness. “Tis simple. Rosie requires everything from the skin out.”

  She stared at him with rounded eyes. “Dare I ask what the poor thing is wearing at this very moment?”

  “One of my nightshirts.”

  Mary’s laughter again rippled through the thick, hot air. “How utterly scandalous!”

  Andrew flashed a mild leer. “Exactly,” he purred.

  He forced himself not to dwell on the ravishing memory of Rosie’s slim body scarcely hidden by the thin material of his shirt. He must concentrate on his goal. Later, he would allow himself the pleasure of watching Rosie at her toilette. Perhaps another bath would be in order. It was such a hot day. He had especially enjoyed bathing her last night. What a fine pair of ripe breasts Rosie had—

  Lady Mary swatted his knee with her fan. “Stop woolgathering, Andrew! By my troth, you have not heard one word I just said!”

  He chuckled with guilt and crossed his legs. “You have caught me out, Mary. I crave your pardon.”

  “I could provide what your little lightskirt needs—”

  Andrew interrupted. “Rosie might not be as pure as an angel, but she is not made for sporting tricks.”

  Mary cocked her head. “Oh, ho! Does the wind blow in that direction? Is that a love light I spy in your eye?”

  He shifted on his stool and wished that Mary had not been gifted with a quick intelligence. “Rosie is merely my employee. I have promised to pay her a percentage of my winnings.”

  Mary continued to eye him with a knowing look that made him feel very uncomfortable. He swigged more of his ale.

  “You are too sure of yourself. God’s teeth, Andrew! Tom will skin Brandon alive when he learns that the boy has wagered a fortune.”

  Andrew dismissed the Earl of Thornbury’s wrath with a wave of his hand. “I do not intend to beggar the boasting scamp. I merely desire him to wriggle upon my hook for a little. Ever since he was knighted, our Brandon has taken to swaggering like a rooster in the henhouse. He needs to be taken down a peg or two.”

  Mary nodded. “You speak the truth, but upon my soul, tis no game that you play with your wench.” She poured more ale into his mug. “You have become quite dense in your dotage, my dear. Tis this—you may be playing a game, but what of your Rosie? Tis her life and fortune that you juggle. For all your conceits, you are too chivalrous to mock even a harlot.”

  Her observation made him squirm. “I have no intention of mocking the child,” he replied almost primly. “You may not believe this, but I have treated her with the utmost respect.” So far.

  Mary fanned herself in silence for a long moment. Outside, a persistent bee droned against the canvas wall, perhaps drawn by the sweet smell of the ale. “What happens afterward?”

  Andrew wiped a droplet of the brew from his lips with his handkerchief. “After what?”

  She rolled her eyes toward heaven. “After the feast, after the tents have been folded and put away, after there is nothing left but the trampled earth. Will your Rosie be one more broken flower tossed away on this Godforsaken plain when you leave?”

  Andrew’s gold chain seemed to grow heavier around his neck. “She will go back to England, I expect. She is English after all.”

  He had not given much thought to what would happen to Rosie after the wager had been won. Returning her to Quince was out of the question. Beyond that, Andrew didn’t know. His mind had been filled only with the challenge. He felt a little uncomfortable, and he resented Mary for introducing the subject.

  She shook her head. “Oh, Andrew, you did not used to be so dull of wit. You expect this poor mite to go back to the stews of Bankside and to bless you for giving her a glimpse above her station?”

  He fumed under his velvet cap. Why had cheerful Mary suddenly turned into such a scold? “I will see to her welfare. Trust me, Mary.”

  A glint of her natural good humor returned to her eyes. “I cannot wait to meet this wild meadow rose who has entrapped you in her briars.”

  He snorted. “I fear you are mistaken this time, Mary. Nothing catches me unless I will it.”

  Her lips twitched with suppressed mirth. “We shall see. Tell me, how tall is the girl? Will any of my gowns fit her?”

  Andrew thought back to when he had held Rosie close against his chest. A wave of pleasure washed away his ill humor. “She is just as high as my heart,” he murmured.

  The lady arched her brow again in the most annoying fashion. “What an interesting observation and choice of words.” She tapped her cheek with her fan. “It appears that she is too small for my things, but methinks she would fit Marianne’s quite well.”

  Mary got up and went to the rear of the tent where a row of large chests stood open. She rummaged through one, and tossed clothing on a nearby cot. “That daughter of mine ordered so many things for this trip that she has forgotten half of what she brought.”

  Andrew rocked back on his stool and beamed as the pile of pretty gowns, petticoats, chemises, stockings, hanging sleeves, smocks, French hoods and veiled headdresses grew. He had to admire both Marianne’s taste in finery and her mother’s indulgence in the girl’s whims. He hoped that Marianne’s future included a wealthy and generous husband.

  Mary topped the glittering array with a hoop farthingale and an exquisite pair of red slippers. “There! Twill do?”

  Andrew nodded and resisted the urge to rub his palms together with glee. Mary had a way of asking for return favors at inconvenient times.

  “Methinks that your daughter will be most displeased when she notices that her wardrobe has shrunk,” he observed.

  Mary folded the assortment into neat bundles. “I doubt it. Marianne has spent these past four days hanging on the railings at the tournaments and mooning over every knight under the age of five-and-twenty. Twill be a month of boring Sundays before she notices that anything is amiss.”

  He chuckled. “Then tis well that she is cousin to my three hellions, or you would have a great deal to give you sleepless nights.”

  Mary smoothed a cloak of gray wool. “I leave that worry to her father. Twas his idea to bring her to France in the first place. Shall I accompany you and help you bear this loa
d?”

  Andrew stood. “My thanks, gracious lady, but I am still able to muster enough strength to carry these few fripperies.”

  She broadened her smile. “Then I shall be free to help your young mistress into her new clothes.”

  He shuddered at that suggestion. “Again, my deepest gratitude overflows its bounds, but alas, I must decline your kind offer. Rosie is shy, skittish like a new colt. I will dress her myself—to give her confidence.”

  A gleam of amusement played in Mary’s eyes. “This is news indeed! Methought you were more adept at undressing a woman.”

  In one swift move, he scooped up Rosie’s new wardrobe. “I am a man of many talents, Mary. And you must admit that my sense of fashion is renowned. Rosie will be as well-laced into her gowns as you are yourself.” With a bow, he started to back out of the tent.

  “Oh, Andrew!” She called after him.

  He swore to himself. She had that teasing expression on her face that often boded some unforeseen trick. “Aye, you minx?”

  She giggled like a girl on May Day. “I do so like your bells.”

  He could not help swaggering a bit. His silver bells responded with a merry jingling. “I wore them expressly for you.”

  “Tush, you prattling peacock!” she bantered, though she blushed. “You wore them for Rosie, didn’t you?”

  He continued to smile while inwardly he cursed Mary’s unerring sixth sense. “My goal in this life is but to please the ladies,” he replied with a jaunty air. “All of them!”

  He winked at his childhood friend, then fled from her before she wheedled anything else out of him. The heavy, humid air of the midmorning felt cool on his brow after the hell he had just endured inside the Washburne pavilion. Gripping his precious gleanings a little tighter, he whistled a ribald tavern ditty as he wove his way through the camp. He couldn’t wait to dress Rosie in her borrowed finery.

  His pleasant thoughts evaporated like mist in sunlight when he drew closer to his own establishment. Sir Gareth Hogsworthy, in company with some of his weaseling minions, clustered outside the pink tent. In the shivering tones of a smooth-spoken serpent, the disappointed lord chilled the hot June morning with his threats. A sizable crowd of curious squires, lackeys, household servants and grooms, together with a few interested members of the nobility, had gathered around in a wide circle. More gawkers ran to join them lest they miss all the excitement. Andrew noted two points in his favor: his tent flaps were closed and tied tight on the inside to the point of puckering, and guarding the entrance on the outside stood the most reckless of all his former pupils, Jack Stafford.

  “You trod a slippery path, you cur-bred potboy!” Gareth blustered directly into Jack’s grinning face. “Stand aside! I will claim the jade now!”

  Jack merely chuckled. “Go to and fill another room in hell!”

  Gareth turned a darker shade of fury. He bared his teeth at the blond giant. “I’ll make a sop in moonshine of your sluggish brains!”

  Jack yawned elaborately, then he turned to the swelling rabble and addressed them. “Mark how sour this gentleman looks! Like a lemon long spoiled. In truth, I cannot bear his presence without suffering from heartburn an hour later.”

  The audience guffawed with appreciation. Andrew realized that the crowd’s approval would encourage Jack to taunt Hogsworthy into a dangerous corner, unless the boy was checked by a cooler head. Andrew sighed and wished he weren’t so encumbered with his gaudy burden at the moment.

  “In fact,” Jack continued in a breezy tone, “I have seen far better faces in my time than this gentleman before me. Look you, good people, see how red my lord grows. In faith, methinks his garters are too tight!”

  Andrew groaned as the crowd applauded Jack’s witticism.

  Gareth hooded his black eyes. “Out of my way, dunghill!”

  Jack folded his arms across his broad chest. “Did he say dung?” he asked the mob. “Good, I am glad my lord has broached that noisome subject, for I intend to tread him under my heel into a mortar, and daub the walls of my privy with him.”

  Gareth knotted his right hand into a heavy fist and reared back to deliver a bone-crunching blow. Andrew shouldered his way through the mob. At the same time he raised his voice.

  “Good morrow, Lord Hogsworthy! What tomfoolery is this so early in the day? Pray forgive the folly of this youth. I fear our Jack is not the flower of courtesy at this early hour.”

  Gareth wavered for a moment, torn between his intent to flatten the young knight or to get what he had come for. Andrew seized the man’s hesitation to plant himself between the two.

  “Your wit has grown stale, Andrew,” Jack whispered behind him. “Let me prick this hog some more. It entertains our countrymen far better than a mummer’s play.”

  Andrew answered out of the side of his mouth. “Chill your anger, Jackanapes. Tis too hot for a fray.”

  Gareth dropped his hand, though he still maintained his aggressive stance. “Methought you were cowering inside your pretty pink tent, Ford. I am much amazed that you had the courage to sally forth where the hellish sun could burn that soft skin of yours. Ha! But I see you have been shopping!”

  He pawed through Andrew’s pile of colorful silks and satins, then pulled out a green gown and held it up for the crowd to see. “By my troth, do you prance around in this attire for your own amusement? Or do you entice your pretty Cavendishes with a wanton’s feathers?”

  Andrew’s common sense clouded with hot anger.

  Jack choked. “I will saw him in half with a rusty razor!” he roared, much to the delight of the mob.

  Andrew stomped on the boy’s foot to silence him. Then he snatched Marianne’s dress out of Gareth’s sweaty hands. “Speak quickly, tedious fool. Why has an ill wind blown you against my doorstep?”

  “The wench,” Gareth growled. “You have toyed with her long enough, Ford. I thank you for preparing the way for me. She should be well opened by now—at least, I think that is what you have been doing with her. Looking at you, tis hard to tell.”

  Andrew curbed his natural impulse to flatten the knave.

  “Hold your tongue, Gareth! Why should I allow myself to give way to your rash choler? Do you think I am frightened when a spoiled child whines? Should I tremble because of your slanders? Not so. Methinks your words have gone up in smoke—back home to the devil, your master.”

  Gareth opened and closed his mouth like a stickleback fish tossed on a riverbank, but no sound came out. Andrew pressed his advantage.

  “In fact, I cannot devise a name too unworthy or ridiculous to fit you. Furthermore, you have an undressed, unpolished, uneducated, unpruned, untrained and unconfirmed sense of fashion. By my troth, you have butchered all your buttonholes!”

  The crowd whistled and applauded Andrew’s witty retort.

  Gareth jutted out his chin and snarled, “I have paid good money for the chit and I demand my satisfaction!”

  Andrew shook his head with mock sorrow. “Then I fear you have misspent your fortune in a bad business venture. Speak to the bawdmaster, not to me. Tis he who holds your purse. Only this morning, I paid him twice over last night’s sum. The lady is mine until I say nay. Now remove your presence from my threshold, and good day to you.”

  Gareth took a step forward. Jack drew his sword and pointed it over Andrew’s shoulder. “A fool and his money are soon parted, eh, my lord?” Jack taunted. “What else do you want to part with this morning? Your long nose—or the jewels that dangle between your legs? Tis all one to me.”

  Several of Gareth’s henchmen took hold of their leader’s shoulders and pulled him back.

  “God’s teeth! I will bury you in the sand of the tiltyard,” he sputtered.

  Jack dipped his blade in agreement. “I look forward to the pleasure, my lord. Name the day and hour.”

  “Twill be your last day on earth! And, you Ford, you will wish you were dead before I am finished with you!” Hogsworthy spat on the ground at their feet before turning away
.

  Andrew drew in a deep sigh of relief as he watched the irate man push his way through the snickering crowd. His cohorts followed after him like a ragged pack of whipped hounds.

  “Put up your sword, Jackanapes. Tis all over but the drinking. Methinks Sir Gareth will have a ringing head before the supper hour.”

  Jack rammed his blade back into its scabbard. “How could you let that stretched-mouthed villain insult you so shamefully and in public?”

  Andrew gave him a world-weary look. “When I was as green as you, I would have gladly welcomed any opportunity for a fight. Since then, I have learned a good many painful lessons. Now I find that I can bear a knave’s insults far better than his bruises. In faith, I have grown quite fond of my blood, and I prefer to keep all of it safe inside me.”

  Jack grimaced. “Then heaven shield me from gray hairs and soft brains! I did not need your help just now. I can fight my own battles. I will make Hogsworthy rue this morning.”

  Andrew grasped the young fool’s shoulder and shook it, wishing he could shake some sense into Jack’s head as well. “Never underestimate Gareth Hogsworthy. He is a well-seasoned jouster and not above cheating his opponents. Consider this if you wish to live long enough to celebrate your twenty-second birthday.”

  The younger man looked at Andrew, then at the ground in silence. Andrew relaxed. Jack could be foolhardy at the worst of times, but he possessed a good mind when he chose to use it. He prayed that Jack would heed his warning and allow his anger to cool.

  When Jack looked up again, he flashed a boyish grin. He patted the clothing that Andrew still held against his chest. “So, tell me, my venerable teacher, what pleasant sport have you been doing today? Did you win all this finery off the back of some innocent but willing lady?”

  Andrew assumed an injured air. “Methinks a long soak in a tub of salted herring would do you wonders, Jackanapes. This wardrobe was honorably obtained from Lady Mary Washburne. Tis for my Rosie.”

  Jack laughed. “I am not surprised! I warrant Lady Mary is now your confederate in your game. Does she approve of your latest whimsy?”