“Do it!” muttered Jeremy.
Rosie took a deep breath, gripped the boy’s hand and squatted. The squire yelped.
“She’s digging her nails into my skin like a cat, my lord!”
“Tush, tush, my boy,” Sir Andrew crooned. “What is a little pain when tis perfection that we seek? Rosie, downcast eyes, if you please. One does not stare into the face of the king.”
She wobbled. “What king?”
Sir Andrew extracted his handkerchief and waved it like a banner. “Why, I speak of our sovereign lord, Henry, eighth of that name. By the grace of God, king of England, Ireland, Wales and sundry parts of this blessed France that we now stand upon. And you, my dearest duck, will do him reverence in eleven days’ time when I escort you to his banquet. Surely you have not already forgotten?”
Rosie collapsed to the rug in a heap of green skirts. Jeremy lost his balance and crashed down beside her. “Fire and brimstone, my lord! Ye never said nothing about the king! We will both end up in Newgate prison house if he ever claps an eye on me dressed up in these borrowed feathers and a-curtsying to him!”
Her employer merely smiled all the more. “I fear you have made a few incorrect statements, my sweet. First of all, if it please His Grace, I will find myself residing in the Tower of London. You will be in Newgate.”
Rosie squeaked with horror at the thought.
“In the second place, you will not be wearing those particular garments that now grace your lovely form. You will be swathed in far costlier raiment when you meet the king.”
Rosie chewed her little fingernail and moaned in the back of her throat. Why hadn’t Sir Andrew been more specific when he had explained his wager last night?
“Rosie! Stop biting your nails!” He erased a chalk mark from the nearby slate. “Where was I? Ah! My third and final point—your curtsy. It lacks a certain…flair. Jeremy! Help the lady to her feet and let us do it once again.” He held up his hands. “Not a word, my chicks. Not even a peep, or twill be the ax for all of us!” he added with a dramatic dark note.
“Your master is stark, raving mad,” Rosie whispered to the squire as he pulled her upright.
The boy swallowed hard. “Tis Sir Andrew’s pleasure to entertain many fantasies. Pray that this is merely one of them.”
“Amen to that,” she replied in an undertone.
Sir Andrew winked at her, then motioned for her to crouch like a frog again. “Excellent!” he exclaimed after her third try. He drew a very large mark on the slate.
She decided to ignore Sir Andrew’s threat about meeting the king. If she could earn pennies for bobbing up and down like an apple in a tub of water, she would not question either her lord’s sanity or his future plans. It was her future that most interested Rosie, and each new stroke on the slate brought her one step closer to her independence.
At long last, Sir Andrew declared himself satisfied with her progress. Just when she thought she could take off the tight gown and relax, he announced that it was time to go for a walk.
“Stir up a hearty appetite for the delicious repast that Jeremy will procure for us whilst we dally away the next hour,” he said.
Rosie gulped. “What if someone should recognize me as one of Quince’s girls, my lord?”
She didn’t want Sir Andrew to become the laughingstock of the entire English encampment on her account. In spite of his daft ideas and gaudy taste in clothes, he was a good man—far too good for her.
He shrugged away the idea. “Let the lady use your clogs, Jeremy. Twould be a blasphemy to besmirch her new slippers with the foul dust of France.”
The squire dropped a pair of heelless wooden shoes in front of her. She nudged one with her toe.
Sir Andrew raised an eyebrow. “What now, Rosie?”
“Haint ever—” She stopped, then corrected herself before he could touch the slate. “I have never worn shoes before, my lord,” she said.
Utter disbelief etched his features. “Not even in the winter?”
She shook her head. “I tied rags around my feet on the coldest days. I am used to walking on a rough road.” Unlike you, my tender-footed lord.
He dismissed her past discomfort with a flick of his lace-ruffed wrist. “Then tis high time to change all that, my dear. Slide those things on and we shall be off! ‘Ods Bodkins!’“ He struck his forehead with his hand. “Your beauty has so blinded me that I have become quite befuddled.”
He crossed the rug in three long strides, pulled back the silken curtain to his inner chamber, then looked among her new clothes.
“Aha!” he crowed with delight. In one hand, he held a green coif with a gauzy white veil hanging down the back. His other hand waved a pair of kid gloves the color of fresh butter. “As much as I enjoy your exquisite tresses, Rosie, propriety dictates that they must be covered in civil company. And the gloves are to hide the fact that you have plucked a multitude of fowls in your recent past, and that you bite your nails.”
Before Rosie could protest that the additions were too much to wear on such a warm day, her employer had clapped the headdress on her head and stuffed her hair within the veil. He tossed the gloves in her lap and stared pointedly at them, then at the slate. Rosie saw it would be useless to argue with him. Moreover, she did not want to lose another penny now that she was finally ahead. With a sigh of resignation, she wiggled her fingers into the gloves. All the while, she wondered why ladies would allow themselves to be stuffed, prodded and poked into such uncomfortable attire. A gentlewoman might look fashionable on the outside, but she suffered within. Finally, Rosie thrust her feet into the heavy clogs and attempted to stand up. Jeremy had to assist her. She swore a colorful tavern oath under her breath. Unfortunately, Sir Andrew’s sharp ears heard her.
“Tsk, tsk,” he remarked, smudging out not one but two of her precious pennies. “Ladies never swear—and certainly not with the flavor of Cheapside.”
Rosie bit her tongue. She was no lady and would never be one, no matter what Sir Andrew wanted. Goose girls were as far-from the halls of Whitehall as the devil was from heaven. No amount of baths or rich clothing was going to change that fact. Sir Andrew might as well hand over his purse to Brandon Cavendish right now and save himself a packet of trouble.
He took her hand in his and smiled into her eyes. “Alas, fair lady, why do you look so sad? We are merely going for a morning’s stroll, and not to an execution.”
She wanted to rebuff him for his own good, but when he looked at her like that, her knees grew weak and her sensible objections evaporated. She licked her dry lips.
“Speak for yourself, my lord. As for me, I feel like the headsman awaits me yonder. Methinks soon all the world will know that I am not to the manor born. I pray you, sir, do not subject yourself to waggish jibes and foul insults on my poor account. Let us stay in here where tis safe.”
He caressed her cheek as if she were a kitten. “Fear not, sweet Rosie. I will tell you a little secret. Men seldom look at a whore’s face. Tis only her body that they want, and once they are done with her, they forget all entirely. You are safe now—with me.”
He patted his bonnet and adjusted his ornate sword on his hip. His little bells rang merrily. “Besides, in your new finery and clean face, you look quite different. Heigh-ho, and we are off! Step lively, Jeremy! We expect our dinner in an hour’s time. Come, my dear Rosie. Let us walk about and I will show you how real ladies and gentlemen deport themselves.”
With a grand flourish of farewell, he led Rosie out into the sunshine and into a world that far surpassed her wildest dreams.
Chapter Nine
Even though the hazy sun of the forenoon beat hotly down upon her and a roguish wind stirred up the dust, Rosie forgot all the discomfort and heat the moment her eyes adjusted to the glare. It had been dark when she arrived in France scarcely two days ago, and she had been too tired and miserable to take an interest in her new surroundings. Now, looking around her for the first time in the light of day, Rosie could
not believe her eyes.
Sir Andrew chuckled as he tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow. “There now. What thinkest thou?”
Rosie could barely blink, afraid that she might miss something or that the splendid sight would disappear in a cloud of golden smoke. “Tis a dream of paradise, my lord.”
On all sides, as far as she could see, a great tented city stretched across the vast treeless plain known from ancient times as the Val D’Or—the Golden Vale. Now the grand name had come to life. Everywhere Rosie looked was the glitter of gold. Many of the round pavilions were painted with such a bright golden color that it dazzled her eyes when she looked upon them. Other tents were brilliant-blue, strawberry-red, green-striped, yellow-striped, tawny-colored and snow-white. All, like Andrew’s garish rose-pink pavilion, were decorated with festoons of red and white roses, tendrils of glossy green ivy that wound its way up one side and down another, blue cornflowers intertwined with scarlet poppies and yellow-eyed white daisies. Every flowery detail had been painted by artists with cunning skill.
Rosie turned a full circle, being careful not to move too quickly lest she fall in the wobbling clog shoes. “There must be hundreds and hundreds of these grand dwellings,” she marveled. “Even the meanest tent here is finer than any house I have ever seen.”
Her companion beamed at her. “Aye, Rosie. Before you is spread the cream of all English society. Cardinal Wolsey’s clerk of provisions confided to me that there are more than four hundred of these canvas huts—and that is only on the English side of the valley. The French have put on an equal show in their encampment beyond the tilt field. We must be equal in all things or else someone might take offense.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Mark you, Rosie, our sovereigns are not at peace. They adapt themselves to these unusual circumstances, but they hate each other very cordially.”
Jewel-colored banners fluttered in the hot wind above nearly every pavilion. Griffins, lions, stars, maces, roses, bulls, dragons and other marvelous creatures sported across the bright silks.
“Coats of arms, my dear.” Sir Andrew answered her silent question. “They announce whose abode lies underneath. For instance…” He pointed to his own pennant of light-blue. “Do you see the silver swan upon yon azure field? Tis my very own device. I am the silver swan.”
Rosie thought the vain, self-satisfied bird was a very appropriate symbol for the glittering gentleman, though she did not voice her opinion in case he might take offense.
Sir Andrew pointed to the modest blue-striped tent next to his. “Our good neighbor is Sir Jeffrey Brownlow—a hearty jouster if ever there was one. Yesterday, he nearly decapitated his French opponent. You will know Sir Jeffrey by the great brown bear on the golden field. And over there…” he indicated a red-and-gold tent across a narrow lane “…is Sir Tobias Emerickes, my chief opponent at the archery range, and his Lady Jessimond. You will notice that those regrettable heads on the sable field bear marked resemblance to goats with spikes in their heads. Tis Emerickes’ idea of unicorns.”
Rosie giggled. The poor beasts really did look like they suffered monstrous headaches.
Sir Andrew waved his hand in a third direction. “If you wended your way among those rather pedestrian groups of shelters, you would come upon the entire Cavendish family. They have at least a dozen tents of various sizes and degrees. Together they make up their own village, so to speak. You will know them by the ferocious wolf’s head on a red background. Beyond them is one of the large cook tents provided by our esteemed Cardinal Wolsey so that we poor souls will not starve on this barren waste.”
Rosie nodded, and prayed that she could remember half of what Sir Andrew had said. Her attention wandered away from the tents to the inhabitants. Even the servants who emptied the slops in the trenches that ran behind each row of pavilions looked dressed for a feast. Their masters were almost beyond description.
Rosie ogled at a lady who passed and nodded to Sir Andrew. She was dressed in several shades of green taffeta with her overskirt and flowing sleeves made of burgundy velvet.
“By my larken, my lord, look there! Is she a duchess?” She wondered if she was supposed to curtsey to such a rich-looking personage.
Sir Andrew grasped her outstretched hand and pulled it down to her side. “Pray do not point at Lady Eleanor Foxmore, sweet Rosie. Tis ill-mannered. She is not a strange creature from the New World on display at a fair, nor is she a duchess. Her husband is a gentleman usher to the king. Furthermore, ladies never point—they indicate.”
“Oh.” Rosie lifted her hand to chew her thumbnail, but tasted the leather glove instead.
Sir Andrew quirked an eyebrow as a reminder. “Even though the slate of your account is not at hand at this exact moment, I have a prodigious memory and can recall your lapses at will. Be advised.”
She rubbed her nose while she tried to decipher what he had just said. “You mean you’ll take away my pennies even outside your tent?”
He flashed her a toothful grin. “Exactly, my dear!”
Just then he pulled her aside as a great black warhorse trotted past them. The animal and his rider were both decked in dark-blue satin shot with golden stars. An incongruous bouquet of gold satin roses decorated the horse’s beautiful flowing tail. A pair of panting greyhounds wearing collars of gold chains raced behind their star-studded master.
“You are amazed?” Sir Andrew murmured in her ear as they watched the glittering knight continue on his way down the broad avenue.
Rosie paused a moment while she considered her answer. She knew he wouldn’t like it, but she would speak her mind anyway. “Amazed—and disgusted, my lord.”
He cocked his head. “How now? Do we stand too near the jakes’ trench? Avail yourself of my pomander.” He offered his clove-studded orange that hung from a gold chain at his belt.
She shook her head. “Nay, my lord. I have smelled far worse in London than I do here. Tis hard to explain.”
He patted her hand as he conducted her down the avenue behind the receding knight and horse. “I have a good ear and all the time in the world, dear Rosie. I yearn to know—what particularly disgusts you—besides the proximity of the blessed French?”
She searched her vocabulary for the right words, while walking very carefully to avoid a disastrous stumble in her uncomfortable shoes. “Tis all this display of wealth, my lord,” she finally replied. “The rich clothes. The gilded tents. Even the dogs are sleeker and better dressed than the mayor of Windsor. Tis a waste!”
Sir Andrew considered her opinion for a moment, then turned to her with a mildly perplexed look in his eye. “Come again, sweetheart, for you have lost me in that last turning of your thoughts. What is so wasteful—except perchance Emerickes’ sorry excuse for a unicorn?”
How could Sir Andrew be so dense? He had struck her as one of the few intelligent men she had met. She pulled him to a stop in the middle of the roadway. “Look about you, my lord. Do you see anyone curled in a corner, gray and gaunt for the want of a crust of bread? Do you see a family of children blue to the skin because they lack clothes to wear in the winter? Where are those poor souls who are plagued with open sores that turn your stomach to look at them? Where are the shambling houses that have only half a roof to keep out the rain?”
At each question, he grew more uncomfortable. “I agree that we are temporarily freed from such doleful sights. Tis the king’s holiday time. The only beggars here are French. Unfortunately we shall have to return to our own in a fortnight.”
She wanted to hit him. “Are ye blind, my lord? Or is your head merely thick as an oaken post?”
“Hold, wench!” He fixed her with a stern glare. “You forget to whom you speak.”
Distracted by her anger, she dug her fingers into the ornate material of his sleeve. “Nay, Sir Andrew Ford, I have not forgotten where I came from, but methinks you have. Who paid for these lavish amusements and fripperies that I see on every side—even on the horses and dogs?”
Understanding suffuse
d his handsome features. “Ah, I spy your meaning.” A red blush stole up his neck from his tight collar. “The king’s treasury pays for the king’s appointments.”
She gave him a withering smile. “And who puts good coin into the king’s treasury? Nay, you need not answer that, my lord, for we both know that it comes out of the mouths of the common folk of England. Why, for the cost of that banner with the ridiculous unicorn, a family such as mine would have bread for the entire winter. One of those chains that grace yon dog would buy a wealth of blankets to warm every child in Stoke Poges. That, my lord, is the waste.” She lowered both her voice and her eyes. “I hope that our good king does not roast in hell for his vanity.”
Sir Andrew leaned over and whispered in her ear. “Speak gently if you speak of Great Harry, little angel, or else you may find your wings clipped in the grim Tower of London.”
Though his words frightened her, she could not resist a final sally. “Methought you said I was too low for the likes of the Tower. Methought I would be sent to Newgate.”
His frown disappeared with a grin. “You are truly a wonder, Rosie, and I will pledge myself to keep you out of both, or die in the attempt.”
He must be jesting, she thought, for her experience had already taught her that no one would lift so much as a little finger to save her skin. She was about to deny his idle promise, when a weeping girl dressed in the clothes of a handmaiden practically flew out of a nearby pavilion and fell into Sir Andrew’s arms. She was followed by a very grand lady whose beauty was marred by the anger of her expression.
“Slut! Beetled-headed fool!” the noblewoman screamed at the quaking girl. She boxed the maid’s ears. “That veil you tore cost more than you are worth!”
Sir Andrew stepped between the two women and grabbed the lady around her waist before she could strike again. “Hold, Olivia! What is amiss? Your frown blots your legendary beauty, my love.”
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