The girl shook her head at the choice. “Methinks I will get this gown dusty in a trice if I walk about in it for very long. I have no money to pay Lady Mary if the garment is ruined.”
The countess pulled tighter, nearly squeezing all the breath out of Rosie. “Tut, my child. My sister-in-law told me that she gave you these clothes. They are yours to mend or mar as you please.”
“Tis true?” Rosie felt a little giddy and concluded that it must be because she could not draw a deep breath. “Spit in your palm and swear on the moon, my lady,” she whispered.
Alicia smiled and nodded to her. Rosie turned her head away so that the kind gentlewoman would not spy the tears that shimmered in her eyes. Tears were a sign of a weakness that she did not want to admit.
Fifteen-year-old Walter Ormond lounged in the deep shadow between the canvas sides of the two large tents diagonally opposite the garish pink monstrosity that Sir Andrew Ford called his home away from home. The stripling curled his lip at the sight of it. No selfrespecting Northumberland man would acknowledge such a confection as his own.
The sullen boy shifted his position on the hard-packed ground and wished he had not been so eager to act as a spy for Sir Gareth. To while away the time, he amused himself by catching the droning flies with one hand, then pulling off half their wings. He giggled as he watched the mutilated insects stagger and attempt to fly.
An hour crept by and the day grew more humid. Walter lifted his wineskin and drank a mouthful of the warm liquid. He looked up just in time to see a tall, dignified woman in a blue gown disappear inside Ford’s tent. Though he had not seen her face, he recognized the wolf’s head emblem that her bodyguard wore. Muttering an oath against his father’s nearest neighbor and nemesis, Walter wondered why the Countess of Thornbury visited Andrew so early in the day. That fop had more women hanging about him than the wretched flies around a midden heap.
The next half hour proved a little more interesting. Sir Andrew, dressed in only a shirt and his hose, came out of his tent, sat on an upturned wine cask and was shaved by his pretty-faced squire. Walter had met Jeremy Metcalf once before and the slender-built boy had proved to be made of tougher mettle than Walter had expected. After a severe pounding, young Ormond had learned not to make any sniggering comments about Ford within Jeremy’s hearing.
A number of gentlemen who were out to enjoy a breath of morning air before the sun heated the valley like a blacksmith’s anvil stopped when they saw Sir Andrew and exchanged loud pleasantries. Sweat trickled down Walter’s face. A pox on the lily-livered French and their peevish weather! The boy couldn’t wait until this courtly farce between the two kings was concluded. He missed the cool greenery of England and the sharp winds that blew across the moorland near his home at Snape Castle. Walter swore he would boil his guts in fish oil before he ever set foot in France again.
Despite his near-nakedness, Sir Andrew greeted all comers with a jest and a hearty laugh. Walter had always thought the peacock lord soft in his head anyway. He wondered what the wench thought of Ford.
Now there was a dainty morsel! A ticklish feeling settled below Ormond’s belt when he remembered the strumpet’s bare breasts in the glow of the torch light. Sir Gareth had all but promised Walter that he could dally with her once the older man had sated his pleasure. The boy closed his eyes and rubbed himself as he imagined what he would do once he had the jade under him.
When he opened his eyes again, Sir Andrew and his squire had disappeared. The youth pulled himself to his feet. Hogsworthy would have his hide if Walter lost track of the girl’s whereabouts. While he eased the crick out of his back, he wondered if he dared to move closer to Ford’s tent and to spy within. On the other hand, he had no desire to tangle with Jeremy again—at least not on an even footing. He would get his own back on the squire on a dark, moonless night.
Walter stepped into the full sunlight and squinted his eyes against the sudden glare. He started across the open area between the tent pegs, then the tent flaps moved. The boy had just time enough to duck back in the shade before Sir Andrew emerged, leading the tall lady by the hand. Jeremy and the lady’s handmaid followed behind them. The squire carried a longbow and a green leather quiver stuffed with arrows. Two men-at-arms, one wearing Ford’s swan livery and the other the Cavendish badge, brought up the rear. Walter watched the company saunter down the broad avenue that led toward the middle of the valley where the tiltyards and archery butts were located. The toothsome whore had been left behind unattended.
As soon as the group was well out of sight, Walter sprinted down the back alley between a row of tents. He leapt over a reeking sewage ditch then he dodged around a large gray tent where stacks of firewood and large tuns of water awaited the needs of a hundred lackeys. Ormond cleared another ditch, equally as foul as the first, ran down a lane of modest pavilions, then drew up in front of Sir Gareth’s.
Both flaps were tied open in the hope of catching the last of the morning’s breeze. Just inside the entrance, Sir Gareth played at cards with Fitzhugh. By the smug look on Gareth’s face, Fitzhugh must have lost a great deal of money. Walter sighed with relief. Since he was already in a good mood, Sir Gareth might reward the boy’s message with a coin or two. Walter’s debts were a continual sore point with his father.
The youth bowed to Gareth. “My lord, Sir Andrew has gone to the archery range with his squire and the Countess of Thornbury.”
With a pleased smirk, Gareth fanned out the cards in his hand so that his companion could see them. Then he gave Walter his full attention. “And the wench?”
“She remained behind, my lord. Alone.”
“Guards?”
“None, my lord. Mayhap Sir Andrew does not value her much.”
Gareth chortled to Fitzhugh. “Ho, my friend! Put away that peevish look. My luck has turned again in a widening gyre. I spy good entertainment before the noon hour strikes.”
He stood so quickly that he overturned the small table, scattering the cards and mother-of-pearl gaming pieces to the ground. Without a backward glance, Gareth strode out of his tent with Walter panting close behind him. Fitzhugh followed at a more dignified pace.
“Stand on watch,” Gareth growled to the boy when they neared Andrew’s pavilion. Then, the lord slipped inside.
Perspiration beaded on Walter’s forehead. He had no desire to confront one of the Cavendish brothers nor their insufferable cousin if one of them should happen to walk by. Each minute crept by like an hour.
“A thousand devils take you!” Gareth erupted from the tent and snatched up Walter by his collar. “The wench is gone!” He shook the boy like a rag poppet, then threw him to the ground.
Walter wiped the swirling dust out of his eyes. “I did not see her go, my lord,” he whined.
Gareth kicked him. “You puling mealy-mouth poltroon! Did you think she would still be dressed in rags and filth? Not with Andrew Ford as her keeper. He has cleaned her up and dressed her in fine feathers. How many women did you see accompany him?”
The boy scooted out of the range of Gareth’s boots. “Only the countess and her maid…Oh!” He realized his mistake.
“Aye, you clodpate! Ford hoodwinked you! But why has he spent a fortune on this whore? That is the question.”
Fitzhugh ambled out of the tent’s shadow. “Perchance Lord Satin Britches dabbles in a double-dealing scheme, Gareth,” he suggested in a gritty voice. “Ford has always been a sly trickster.”
Gareth stroked his chin. “Aye, he bears watching. Come!” He turned on his heel and strode down the avenue.
Walter scrambled to his feet and limped after the two lords. He rubbed his thigh where a hard knot already formed from Gareth’s boot. Ten minutes later, they entered the archery range where the competition was about to begin. The royal banners of France and England hung limply from their poles. No breeze stirred the dust of the parched earth, unlike the two previous days when a veritable whirlwind had made the shooting impossible. The sun climbed slowly i
n the hazy sky. A large crowd of spectators clustered in the wooden galleries under the striped awnings. The ladies, like a bevy of bright birds, chatted and laughed in high brittle voices while fanning themselves energetically. The gallants lounged behind their damsels and bantered amusing comments in boisterous voices. Neither of the kings nor their courts sat in the royal boxes.
Gareth mounted the gallery steps two at a time, then pushed his way along the back wall until he was directly behind the Countess of Thornbury. Fitzhugh and Walter followed. The press of the bejeweled audience in their heavy velvets and brocades made the rear of the gallery a hot and smelly place. Walter cursed his damnable luck when he saw Guy Cavendish seat himself next to his mother. Ormond flattened himself against the roughhewn wooden wall. A protruding splinter scratched his neck.
Narrowing his eyes, Gareth clenched his fists at his side. “Yonder is the brazen jade!”
“The countess appears very friendly with the chit,” Fitzhugh observed.
Hogsworthy replied with a mirthless laugh. “I wonder if Lady Alicia knows she is consorting with a common bawd. God rot it! She is even holding the strumpet’s hand like a daughter’s!”
Fitzhugh shook Gareth by the shoulder. “Lower your voice or you will give our game away.”
The angry lord growled in the back of his throat. “Look now! See how Ford struts like an orange rooster. At any moment, I expect him to throw back his head and crow like one.”
Walter mopped more perspiration out of his eyes with his sleeve, then stood on his tiptoes to see over the feathered hats of the crowd in front of him. A trumpet fanfare announced the commencement of the first round. Sir Andrew tossed his garish doublet to his squire, then fastened on his leather wrist guard. While the other contestants took their places at the firing line, Andrew drew near to the railing where the countess and her companions sat. With a toothy smile and many crowd-pleasing flourishes, he bowed to the women, kissed their fingers and received a ribbon token.
Gareth sneered. “What a farcical dumb show! Look you, he is tying the harlot’s ribbon around his arm next to the countess’ favor.”
Fitzhugh chuckled. “Andrew is going soft in the head like an aging melon.”
Before Gareth could respond, the crowd applauded the first bull’s-eye of the match. The quivering arrow belonged to Sir Andrew Ford.
Rosie could not control her gasp of surprise. Andrew had hardly aimed before he loosened his arrow. She expected it to fly over the painted stag’s head. Instead it embedded itself between the two white eyes.
The shorter Frenchman who shot beside Andrew gave the Englishman a scowl that would curdle milk. Then he pulled his bowstring. Meanwhile, Andrew turned and bowed low to the countess.
Lady Alicia waved her fan in return. “Nod your head to him, Rosie, and smile. Andrew adores attention.”
“I had noticed that already,” she replied, as she waved at him.
The Frenchman’s arrow landed just below the stag’s chest. He glared at his opponent as if his miss were Andrew’s fault.
Without losing a jot of his brilliant smile, Andrew pulled an arrow from his quiver, notched it in his bowstring, turned and fired all in a single fluid motion. Rosie didn’t see where the arrow went. How awful! He must have completely missed the entire target. The crowd cheered and stomped their feet.
She tapped Lady Alicia. “How now? What happened?”
The countess paused her clapping. “Mark the place of Andrew’s first arrow. Now there are two, cheek to jowl.”
Rosie leaned forward and squinted at the target over a hundred feet away. Andrew’s two arrows appeared joined at their tips. The exuberant lord spun around and took another bow which only encouraged the partisan crowd to cheer him louder.
Lady Alicia nudged Rosie. “Clap, or else Andrew will think you are displeased with his performance.”
Rosie held up her hands above her head so that he could see she applauded him. When he smiled at her, Rosie’s heart skipped a beat.
Three more times, both men shot their arrows. Three more times all of Andrew’s hit the same mark while the Frenchman’s shots grew wilder. The crowd did not need the judge to announce that Andrew had won the round. The Frenchman gripped his bow, then broke it over his knee. He tossed the pieces at Andrew’s feet then stalked away amid the booing and hissing of the English. Andrew came to the railing again while the lackeys set up fresh targets. Guy offered him his wineskin.
Andrew tilted it and drank deeply. “My thanks, Guy, you were always a thoughtful squire.” Then he turned to Rosie and beamed. “How now, my lady Rosalind! Have I caught your eye?”
Her heart turned a somersault in response. How dashing he looked in his slightly rumpled state! His loose shirt was open at the neck and a sheen of perspiration emphasized the corded muscles of his chest. His exertions had mussed his wavy hair and she thought he looked particularly raffish with a lock of it falling casually over his forehead. Leaning on his bow, he reminded her of childhood tales of brave Robin Hood. Andrew’s virility captivated her, despite her attempts to quell the excitement that rose within her. You have caught my eye, my heart and nearly all my wits, you rogue.
Aloud she replied, “Aye, my lord. I am much amazed by your skill with the bow,” which was the truth.
Lady Alicia chuckled. “Our Andrew has always been a man of surprises,” she remarked with a knowing look.
He flushed and took another drink.
Guy leaned around his mother and winked at Rosie. “Don’t let Andrew’s gray hairs mislead you, sweetheart. He may be approaching his dotage, but he is still the finest shot in England.”
Andrew returned the wineskin to its owner. “I salute your good father, Guy. He made me practice until my fingers bled.”
The trumpets announced the second round. With a deep bow to the ladies, Andrew returned to his mark. Many of the women in the gallery called to him by name and waved in a manner that Rosie did not think was very ladylike. He returned their attentions with many smiles and blowing of kisses. His behavior irked Rosie and she fanned herself to disguise her annoyance. Some of those noble ladies acted as if they owned him. Rosie told herself that she did not care a whit. After all, she was merely in his employ for a brief time.
That reminder gave her cold comfort.
If she had thought his first five bull’s-eyes had been pure luck, the next two rounds convinced her that Guy’s remark was true. Andrew’s final opponent, the Chevalier de Fauconbourg, had shot well, but even the French audience applauded Andrew when he was presented the prize of a purse of coins.
He rejoined his ladies in high good humor. “Didn’t I tell you, my dears? Didn’t I say they should have awarded me the prize two hours ago? Ah, but it gave me good cheer to tweak the noses of those Frenchmen just a little. They have such remarkably long noses to tweak.”
Lady Alicia patted his hand like an indulgent mother, then she tapped Guy. “Rosie said she would love to see your new warhorse.”
Rosie gasped. “Haint, I mean, I never said—”
Guy made a face. “But, mother—”
The countess interrupted both of them with a silvery laugh. “Nonsense! Of course Rosie must visit Moonglow. Guy, take the child and, mind you, no meddling with her.” She gave her son a very stern look. “Need I make myself any clearer?”
Guy looked faintly insulted. “Nay, mother, I grasp your meaning to the hilt.” He took Rosie’s arm and pulled her from her seat. “Come, Lady Rosalind, allow me to introduce you to my horse.” In a lower tone, he muttered in her ear, “Did you know that a whore and a horse make good company for a man can ride both equally well?”
Rosie pinched the back of his hand and was pleased to see his grimace. “Mind your good mother, my lord. You are to treat me like a blessed lady.”
He arched his eyebrow mischievously. “Blessed ladies do not pinch.” He helped her down the steps.
Lady Alicia turned to the victor of the archery match. “Now, good Andrew, attend me for I ha
ve serious news to pour into your ear.”
Chapter Thirteen
The viewing of the horse was not a success. Rosie had rarely been close to one before, and Moonglow was an enormous beast. She stayed well back while Guy spoke to it in loving tones and fed it a carrot.
“He’s skittish because he’s young and did not like to travel across the Channel,” he explained. “But you need not fear him, Rosie. He’s only a big baby at heart.”
She did not budge. “Haint afeard, my lord. Not of anything.” She tossed her head to give her lie an appearance of truth.
A faint light twinkled in the depths of his cobalt eyes. Guy whispered to his horse. “Methinks the lady protests too much.”
Rosie was relieved when he finally returned her to the archery range. The gallery was practically empty except for Andrew who sat on the narrow bench close to Lady Alicia. The subject of their discussion must have been dire indeed, for Rosie had never seen Andrew look so serious. The two men-at-arms lolled at the base of the steps while Jeremy practiced his own marksmanship at the firing line.
Guy stopped at the bottom of the stairs. “Have we been gone long enough, mother, or should I take Rosie to look at kennels as well?”
The two glanced up from their conversation and both smiled, not at Guy, but at Rosie. She experienced a ticklish prickling on the back of her neck. They have been a-talking about me. She lifted her head with a confidence she did not feel. Mayhap Lady Alicia has put a large flea in Andrew’s ear for buying a whore.
The countess rose and shook out her skirts. “Nay, Guy, no need to go larking off to the hounds on such a hot noontime. We are finished and I am parched with thirst.” She gave her hand to Andrew who kissed it with great tenderness. “Adieu, my friend, and remember all that I have said, or twill grow heavy on your conscience by and by.”
“Never fear, my lady. Your words are engraved upon my soul.”
Lady of the Knight Page 14
