The little rascal puffed himself up with the importance of his information. “Sir Guy asked how could my master do such devilish things at night with the daughter of a French vintner. Sir Brandon called him a spying archangel. Sir Guy made no answer but hit him instead. Tis a marvelous good fight, do you think, my lord?”
Andrew cursed the two lackwits under his breath. Several Frenchmen, who stood nearby, shouted rude observations of the Cavendishes’ fighting abilities. Unfortunately for them, both Brandon and Guy spoke French as a second tongue. The two giants stopped their personal quarrel and turned to the French interlopers.
Brandon wiped the dirt off his face. “How now, my lords?” he asked in flawless French. “You speak a brave show. Would you care to couple your bold words with action? My good brother and I will be glad to relieve you of some of your teeth.”
One of the visitors looked like he might bolt, but his companion stepped forward. “Oui, English dog. Twill be my pleasure.”
“Go to! A Cavendish!” Andrew shouted encouragement to his former pupils. No Frenchman alive could best his boys.
Soon there were four men whacking and pounding each other while the crowd cheered and made many wagers over the outcome.
Rosie tugged on Andrew’s sleeve. “I suppose this is how a true nobleman behaves?” Her words dripped with mocking mirth.
Andrew mopped his perspiring brow with his handkerchief. He winced when he saw the disdain on her face. “The lads are merely practicing their knightly skills,” he murmured.
Rosie shook her head with a sneer. She pointed to the Cavendishes who made mincemeat of the opponents. “For this you are called our betters? For this we common folk should grovel in the dirt before you? I thank you for this most educational stroll, my lord. I have learned mickle much about the ways of fine ladies and gentlemen. Do you think I should now practice how to swear and fight? Or how to lead good men astray by using my body in a wanton fashion? Shall I bathe in the nude three times a day in the middle of the road? Pray tell me, good Sir Andrew, is there anything else I have missed?”
He bestowed on her his widest smile, though her every word stung him like a whiplash. He took her hand and led her away from the brawl. “Aye, my sweetest Rose. Once again, you have hit the mark. We are missing our dinner. Come!”
* * *
With a terrible roar, Sir Gareth Hogsworthy backed his henchman against the palings of the practice tiltyard. Again and again he rained blows of his blunted broadsword against the splintered shield of his opponent. Young Walter Ormond sank to his knees in the soft sand and tore off his practice helm. His pale face ran with sweat.
Dropping his sword, the stripling held both his arms in front of his pimple-pocked face. “1 yield, my lord!” Ormond whined. “Pray cease! I am worn to the nub!”
Hogsworthy cuffed the puling boy with the flat of his blade. Then he drove his weapon’s tip deep into the sand. The sword quivered with the impact. Tossing a curse over his shoulder, Gareth stalked over to the near side of the ring and grabbed the leather water bag out of his squire’s hands. He poured the contents over his head, then shook off the excess much like a dog would.
Sir Edward Fitzhugh leaned his elbows on the railing and chuckled. “You fight like a demon today, Gareth,” he remarked. “Whose face do you see instead of young Ormond?” He offered his wineskin to Gareth.
The fuming lord helped himself to a deep draught before he answered. “I would that Ford were cowering on his knees in the sand.” He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “I would not have stayed my hand.”
Fitzhugh chuckled again. “All for that little bit of skirt?”
Gareth glared at his friend. “God’s death! It runs deeper than that. That gaudy-dressed game cock made me look the fool this morning. I’ll not bear such slanders. I’ll have that knave’s gizzard served on a platter. Aye! And I’ll make his wench eat it!” He threw his gauntlets and chain mail hood at his squire.
Fitzhugh picked at his fingernails. “As for the girl, get yourself another. There is more than one poesy in the field. Indeed, a goodly stock of gamesome strumpets from every point of the compass have gathered on the fringes of our camp. There is bound to be one that will appeal to your particular tastes.”
“The pox infect you, Fitzhugh! I paid good coin for that virgin.”
Edward shrugged. “Then split the bawdmaster’s fat head in twain and take back your money. Tis a bit late in the day for your wench. She’s no longer a virgin by now, I warrant.”
Gareth gnashed his teeth. “Tis that one I want! Ford snatched her away from me when I had won her fair and square. Now he flouts her under my nose! Did you see them walking together this forenoon as bold as you please? Why, he even has dressed her in pretty rags. I swear to you, I will not tolerate this infamy!”
Fitzhugh fanned himself with his hat. “Then challenge the man.”
Gareth took another long pull from the wineskin. He would not admit to Fitzhugh, nor any one else, that he was afraid of Andrew Ford’s skill as a swordsman. The man might dress like a peacock, but over the years at court Gareth had seen Ford in action and knew that the knight was a formidable adversary. Now that Ford was growing older, Gareth thought he could beat him but, on the other hand, a defeat at the hands of that popinjay would be worse than this morning’s embarrassment.
Then there was that brash Stafford’s challenge. The boy fought with a wild recklessness that was downright terrifying to watch. Gareth had no intention of meeting that hothead in the tiltyard, no matter how “cordial” the rules were. Gareth also knew that where Stafford went, his two cousins, the Cavendishes, would be near at hand. Those acorns had not fallen far from the tree of their formidable father, Thornbury. Gareth knew that if he tangled with one, he would tangle with all. The odds were against him from the first. He swore another blistering oath.
Edward raised an eyebrow. “How now?”
Gareth drained the rest of the wine. “We will steal the wench right out from under Ford.” He chuckled at that idea. “Twill stew up that old man in his own foul juices. He has always prided himself as an expert seducer. We will say she ran away from him, then proclaim far and wide of his failure to keep even a common whore satisfied. He will come to rue the day he tweaked my nose.”
Fitzhugh stared out beyond the practice yard. “Aye, a good plan, but how will you effect it? Ford guards her like an old hen with one chick.”
Gareth leaned against the railing. “He will have to leave her when he attends the king. I highly doubt that he will parade her under Great Harry’s nose no matter what pretty ribbons he ties on her. We will set a man to watch his tent. Meanwhile I will bide my time as if I have forgotten the whole matter. Young Ormond there…” he pointed to his hapless practice partner “—he will make a good watchdog.”
Fitzhugh nodded. “In that you speak the truth. Walter is slimy enough to flit between shadows and he possesses no inconvenient morals.”
Gareth gave a hollow laugh. And once the wench is in my hands, I will make her curse the day she ever smiled at anyone but me.
* * *
Rosie lay in her trundle bed and stared at the canvas roof. She could hear Sir Andrew and Jeremy speaking in low voices on the other side of the silken curtain that separated the sleeping area from the main part of the pavilion. The light of the single lantern cast their elongated shadows against the curtain. The pink color of the silk bathed Rosie’s side of the tent in a restful glow.
She yawned without bothering to cover her mouth as her mentor had chided her to do all evening. She stretched her body under the light linen sheet and wiggled her throbbing toes. Her slippers were indeed beau tiful to admire but hellish to wear. Her whole body ached. How could walking with a book balanced on her head make her feel so exhausted? Plucking geese and washing brothel house linen was much harder work, but she could not remember when she last felt so tired. No wonder ladies looked pale and pinched in the face!
On the other side of the curtain, Sir Andrew sa
id “haint” to Jeremy and they both laughed. Rosie made a face in their direction. Sir Andrew had spent the long, tiresome afternoon trying to teach her proper speech. The account slate had so many markings and erasures on it by now that Rosie wasn’t too sure if she was ahead or behind. She sighed and chewed her fingernail.
Where was this playacting going to lead when all was said and done? What did Sir Andrew’s wager with Sir Brandon matter now? Rosie estimated that her lord had already spent twice as much as the money he hoped to win from the elder Cavendish.
“For the blessed challenge of it, my dear,” he had told her when she asked him that very question during supper. “In all of Great Harry’s court, Sir Andrew Ford is known to be the authority of refinement and good taste. Tis my jest upon them all.” He chuckled.
Rosie had plopped her elbows on the table between them and had asked, “And me? Am I merely your jest as well?”
She remembered that he had looked surprised at her question. She had no idea why. It was a perfectly logical thing to ask.
“How now?” He had raised one eyebrow in that highly engaging manner of his. “Do you not like wearing pretty clothes? Or eating good food—like that baked sole you are trying to stuff in your mouth all at once? Break it into pieces, my dear. The fish doesn’t mind a bit. And have you lost interest in earning a few shillings for all these pains?”
It had been on the tip of her tongue to ask “Then what?” but she was afraid of his answer. For all his gentle manners and flowery speech, Sir Andrew was like any other man. He would eventually use her for his own pleasure—whatever that may be—promise her the moon, then toss her in the dust of the road. Rosie sat up, drew her knees to her chest and propped her chin on them.
She ought to run away from this mad lark before it went any further. But where to? Certainly not back to Quince—blast his black, penny-pinching heart. She knew now that she would rather die than return to the stews of Southwark. On the other hand, she knew that she could not stay in France once the English went home. How could she manage when she could neither understand nor speak their language? As it was, she was having enough trouble learning how to speak her own.
Sir Andrew laughed again and the sound filled Rosie with a warmth that she had felt last night. He had a wonderful laugh, deep and sensual, that sent ripples of a strange new awareness through her. Just then, he asked for his lute, plucked a few notes on it, cleared his throat and began to sing a tender ballad. Leaning back against the plump feather pillows, Rosie closed her eyes and allowed the sweet melody to wash over her.
Why should she want to run anywhere when there was a haven of comfort and safety in Andrew’s tent—and also, there was Andrew. She smiled in the semidarkness. What a fine man he was! So full with life and the joy of living. He greeted each hour of the day like a newfound treasure. Despite his long-winded speeches and his obsession with his wager, he had a gentle touch and soft words.
No matter how many times she had said “haint” or broken one of the thousand rules of courtly etiquette, Andrew never lost patience and struck her as her foster father had often done. By all rights, he should have given her back to Quince as a poor bargain—after he had deflowered her, of course. Her lower lip trembled. What would he do if and when he finally decided to take what he had purchased? The man was no lackwit. Would his good humor finally snap when he discovered that she did not have a shred of virginity left? She buried her head in the crook of her elbow.
Tonight he had tucked her into her bed as if he were her real father—nay, like a fond older brother. Then he had leaned over and kissed her gently on the forehead. Rosie touched the place where his lips had pressed against her skin and sighed. I wish he had kissed my lips instead. After all, I did clean and polish my teeth in a proper ladylike manner.
Earlier that morning Jeremy had assured her that his master was a man in every sense of the word. The squire hinted that Andrew had years of lovemaking experience. Rosie remembered the way that Lady Olivia had looked at him—like she wanted to pour honey all over him and lick him clean. Rosie damned the noblewoman to a very hot clime.
She ran her fingers through her hair. What was so wrong with her? Why didn’t she attract Andrew’s favor? She had kept her face clean and her hair brushed all day long, just as he had wanted. Wasn’t she pretty enough or clean enough for him now?
Rosie, you dolt, you have fallen in love with Sir Andrew. Close up your heart, for he will break it as sure as there are stars in the heavens.
She lay down and shut her eyes against the powerful emotions that struggled within her heart. I am his chattel and nothing else. She turned away from his lilting music and covered her ears with a pillow.
I am also the greatest fool in this tent!
Chapter Eleven
Wednesday, June 13
The Countess of Thornbury lifted her wide skirts of popinjay blue fustian and stepped around a large pile of steaming horse droppings. She nodded to several disheveled gentlemen she knew who returned her early morning salutation with a mixture of guilty looks and painful movements. Alicia Cavendish smiled to herself. No doubt she had caught her acquaintances creeping back to their abodes after an all-night carouse. At least, it wasn’t one of her sons or their irresponsible Stafford cousin. Twould be an awkward moment for all concerned.
Alicia smiled in earnest when she spied poor, overworked Jeremy boiling a large kettle of water outside his master’s tent. “Good morrow, Jeremy,” she called to the youth. “Is Sir Andrew awake?”
The squire spun around, stared at her and nearly fell backward into the fire. “Lady Alicia!” he gasped. “Tis early in the day to pay a call.” He wrung his hands and cast a quick glance at the closed flaps.
Alicia knew exactly why Andrew’s loyal squire looked like a little boy caught with of crock of honey. She circled around the fire. “Since you are preparing Andrew’s shaving water, I presume that he is awake.”
Jeremy planted himself in front of the entrance. He practically quaked in her presence. “Aye, my lady, but he is not yet dressed.”
Enjoying the squire’s obvious discomfort, Alicia cocked her head and gave him an innocent smile. “Oh? Methought I heard he had a young woman whom he had taken under his wing. Is this not true, Jeremy?”
The boy licked his lips and looked miserable. “Nay…that is…aye, but tis not what you think, my lady.”
Alicia pretended surprise. “But what am I to think if Andrew has a woman in his tent and yet you say he is not dressed? Come, come, Jeremy. You answer out of both sides of your mouth.”
The perspiring squire backed up against the entrance. “My master is not fully dressed, my lady. Not for receiving visitors. But he is properly attired in his hose and shirt. Truly things are not what they seem to be.”
Alicia chuckled. “I shall be the judge of that. Announce me!”
The youth swallowed. “God shield me,” he whispered under his breath. Then he ducked into the tent.
Alicia followed him inside. Twenty years of raising Brandon and Guy had taught their mother to take the advantage of surprise.
Andrew sat on a folding stool with his back to her. As Jeremy had said, he was indeed clothed informally. “No cooperation, no breakfast,” he admonished the young girl who stood in the center of his ornate rug with his lute book in her hands and fire in her green eyes.
“How can you expect me to balance this bleeding book on my head when my head is light for want of food, my lord, and how can you—?” She spied Alicia, gasped, then dropped into a perfect curtsy fit for the king, except for the fact that the child was dressed in only a night shift.
Andrew looked over his shoulder. His hazel eyes widened. With the grace of a dancer, he rose and bowed to his unexpected guest. “Lady Alicia, welcome to my humble dwelling. You are abroad early this morning.” He flushed a little. “You have trapped me in my lair.”
Alicia returned his smile. “Aye, Andrew. Now, do not stand there like a dolt. Introduce me to your charming companio
n.”
He extended his hand to the girl. “Good countess, I have the pleasure to present my protégée, Rosie of Southwark. Rosie, my dear, I have the honor to present you to Lady Alicia Cavendish, the Countess of Thornbury—and the keeper of my conscience.”
Rosie swooped another curtsy and clutched the songbook for dear life. “Good day, my lady,” she murmured more to the floor than to Alicia.
“Good day to you, my dear,” Alicia replied. The poor creature trembled despite the warmth inside the tent.
Andrew snapped his fingers. “Jeremy! A chair for the countess!” To Alicia, he remarked, “Methinks I have overlooked my squire’s training in certain areas. He should have given me fair warning of your arrival.”
The countess settled herself in the armchair. She took her time to arrange her skirts around her feet. “Do not berate the boy, Andrew. Tis not his fault that I moved faster than he.”
Andrew stepped in front of Rosie to shield her from the countess’ scrutiny. “Wine, my lady? Or ale? Mayhap some bread with honey? A spiced apple with cream? Strawberries with cream? Pears with cream?”
Before Alicia could reply, Rosie muttered, “All of them with cream, my lord, for I am perishing with hunger.”
“Rosie!” he hissed out of the side of his mouth.
Alicia lifted her fan to cover her smile behind its plumes. It was worth going abroad early this hot dusty morning just to see Andrew so flustered. “I should think that bread, butter, honey and some light ale would be delightful.”
Her host barked to his squire, “Jeremy, to the cook tent post haste.”
Alicia held up her hands. “Fetch enough for two, Jeremy. I do so enjoy to have company when I eat.”
Andrew waved the boy out of the tent. “Be gone, maltworm!”
Thoroughly enjoying herself at Andrew’s expense, Alicia again held up her hand to stop the squire’s departure. “And some spiced apples, methinks. Tell me, Rosie, are you partial to spiced apples or baked pears?”
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