Lady of the Knight

by Tori Phillips

  “Hush,” he whispered and kissed her tangled hair.

  Jeremy and the potboys had already filled the tub with rose-scented hot water by the time Andrew returned. The squire averted his eyes and went about his duties silently while his master unwrapped Rosie from the garish cape, removed her shift and eased her into the bath. She did not protest, but continued to weep while he gently washed away Gareth’s brutality.

  Jeremy placed the medicine chest within easy reach. Andrew shot a look of gratitude to the boy. He colored, then held out a large towel by the hot brazier to warm it. Andrew helped Rosie out of the water, then wrapped her in the heated towel and carried her to his bed. Jeremy had already turned back the coverlet and plumped the pillows into an inviting mound. Whispering words of endearment and sweet nothings, Andrew patted her dry as if she were a baby. Then he dabbed her wrists and ankles with his soothing balms.

  “Mull some wine,” he told the squire in a low tone.

  Rosie brushed her hair away from her face and looked at Andrew for the first time since he had rescued her. “You cannot fight that man,” she said in a quivering voice. “He is much bigger and methinks he is good with his sword.”

  Andrew stroked her cheek with his knuckle. “And I am not?”

  She chewed on her lower lip before answering. “You are the world’s champion with a bow and arrow, my lord, but jousting with lances and swords? That needs more than a keen eye and a handsome doublet.” She took his hand in hers and lifted it to her lips. “You could be killed. Do not do this rash thing, Sir Andrew. I have no honor worth fighting for. Do not spill your noble blood for my sake.”

  Jeremy held out the cup of warm spiced wine. Andrew mouthed the words poppy powder and pointed to the small box in his chest. The squire portioned measure and mixed it in the wine.

  Andrew offered Rosie the cup. “You prattle like a magpie, my sweet. Drink this.” He watched as she swallowed it down to the last drop.

  “Pray tell, what makes you think that Hogsworthy will gore me?”

  She settled back against the pillows. “He is so big and—”

  Andrew pulled the coverlet up to her chin. “And I have been trained in arms by the greatest knight in England, the Earl of Thornbury. Also Jack has offered to ride at my side and defend me should I fall.”

  Her eyelids fluttered as she fought against the effects of the sleeping potion. “You are both mad. Throw me back into the gutter where I belong. Live… another…day.” With a sigh as soft as a butterfly’s kiss, she fell asleep.

  Andrew smiled down at her, then he leaned close to her ear and whispered, “I cannot live without you.”

  He stood, stretched and then blew out the bedside candle. Afterward he took a long soak in the tub, followed by a rubdown under Jeremy’s capable hands. He had to prepare himself for the morrow. He had not jousted in over a month and he knew he was woefully out of practice. He prayed that his years of experience would stand him in good stead. Then he sighed. Too many years. He was nearly forty and had been slowing down in recent months.

  “Burn that.” Andrew pointed to the red-and-gold cape that still lay on the rug where Rosie had dropped it. “And the cap that goes with it.”

  Jeremy’s eyes widened. “But tis your masquing attire. I can clean it like new again, my lord.”

  Andrew shook his head. “The very sight of them will remind Rosie of this black day and I will not have her suffer more on account of my vanity. I have lost the desire to prattle, prance and preen before a jaded court with pasteboard smiles. Their applause dulls my ears. These fancies of mine have turned to ashes in my mouth. Burn them!”

  After a light supper, he tiptoed back into the bed chamber. He doffed his dressing robe in the darkness, then climbed into the bed beside the sleeping Rosie. He gathered her in his arms and held her close throughout the hours remaining of the brief night.

  Dawn came too soon.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Tuesday, June 19

  Rosie opened her eyes and winced at the brightness that shone through the pink walls of Andrew’s tent. For a moment, she wondered if she had merely dreamed that horrendous nightmare, but the dull pain of the rope burns around her wrists and ankles confirmed the harrowing experience. She groaned and buried her head in the pillows.

  “Good morrow!”

  Rosie rolled over and gaped when she saw the stately Countess of Thornbury sitting and sewing by her bedside. The older woman smiled at her with love in her eyes.

  “Did you sleep well?”

  Rosie started to sit up, and suddenly realized that she had nothing on. “Aye, my lady. No dreams.” Her mouth felt as if she had eaten stale bread.

  Lady Alicia smiled. “Good! Sleep is the best medicine for all ills.”

  Rosie rubbed her eyes and cast a glance toward the larger section of the tent. “Where are Sir Andrew and Jeremy?” she asked with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

  “Gone to the tiltyard. You have slept till almost midday.” The countess trimmed her embroidery floss, then folded her work and placed it in the basket at her feet. “Tis time you were up and abroad.”

  The events of last night spilled from the black recesses of Rosie’s mind. Andrew was going to fight Sir Gareth today. “Nay,” she whispered.

  The countess stood up and gave the bedclothes a sudden yank. “Arise, my chick. You will feel more yourself when you have washed, dressed and eaten something. Quickly, my pet. The sun will not linger for a slugabed. We must be at the arena before the combat begins.”

  “I cannot, my lady,” Rosie replied in a tormented voice. I cannot watch Andrew die for me. “I…I will only shame him with my presence.”

  Lady Alicia lifted a fine, arched eyebrow. “Mark me, Rosie. All the encampment knows that Lord Hogsworthy has dishonored Sir Andrew Ford’s lady and they know that Andrew has challenged that blackguard.”

  “Everyone?” Her throat felt as if it were closing up.

  The countess nodded. “The rumor of it ran like wildfire. Even the dogs have chewed on it with their breakfast.” She pulled the trembling girl out of the haven of the bed and pushed her toward the washbasin.

  “Since you are the lady in question, you must be present when your honor is avenged,” Lady Alicia continued.

  Rosie gripped the sides of the washstand. A heavy despair settled on her. “But I am not a lady,” she snapped. “Surely rumor’s tongues have wagged that truth as well.”

  The countess rummaged through the pile of clothing on the trundle bed. “Nay, it did not.” She held up a simple peach gown made of silk and linen. “Tis a hot day yet again and this should keep you as comfortable as possible.”

  Rosie stumbled through her washing and dressing as if still in a dream. Her fears for Andrew’s safety coiled around her heart and clasped it in an icy grip. She could barely choke down the few pieces of cold chicken and honey bread that Lady Alicia forced on her.

  The countess took up the large hairbrush and worked it through Rosie’s tangles with patient, gentle strokes. “Do not be so downhearted. Our Andrew may look like a sugarplum, but there is more to that man than meets the common eye.” She paused and hugged Rosie. “Just as there is much more to you than you think. Besides, young Jack stands ready to take up the fray should Andrew fall.”

  Rosie’s dampened spirits sank even lower. “But why? My Lord Stafford knows who I really am.”

  A strange smile fluttered across the countess’ face. “Aye, my dear, Jack does indeed. Nothing could keep him out of the arena today.”

  Anger flared in Rosie’s breast. “Then he is a fool to waste his life, for all he wants to do is bed me. He has said so often enough.”

  Lady Alicia stopped her brushing and smiled with exasperation at Rosie. “Jack has changed of late, and in so doing, has become more of a man. You will see anon. Pull on your stockings, and hurry.”

  Rosie swallowed further protests. “Will the king be there?”

  The countess shook her head. “Nay, than
k the Lord. Henry is the guest of the French king for dinner this forenoon while our queen hosts Queen Claude on our side. Our sovereign has no time today to sort out the petty disagreements between two of his minor knights. By the time His Grace returns, the matter should be concluded.”

  Rosie gazed sadly at her. “I feel so helpless,” she whispered her anguish. “What can I do?”

  In answer, Lady Alicia tied a beribboned lace handkerchief around Rosie’s sleeve. “Before the combat begins Andrew will tip his lance to you. Tie this around it as a sign of your favor—and give him your best smile.”

  Rosie fingered the frivolous scrap. “I will try.”

  The countess tied a second one around Rosie’s other sleeve. “This one is for Jack. Above all else, Rosie, pray.”

  She bit her lip until it throbbed with pain. Praying had never come easy to her. “They say that Jesus was kind to Mary Magdalene and she was a harlot. Mayhap He will listen to me—just this once.”

  Lady Alicia adjusted the veil on Rosie’s coif. “Amen to that.” She handed her a white-feathered fan, then led her out into the glaring sunshine.

  The Cavendish brothers stepped out of the nearby shaded area. With their faces washed and hair combed, both young men looked especially handsome wearing their short doublets in the Cavendish colors of red and black. After bowing to his mother, Brandon fell in step with her.

  Rosie was too embarrassed to look at either youth. Guy startled her when he touched her shoulder and offered her his arm.

  “Good day, my lord,” she mumbled, looping her arm around his.

  “How are you feeling?” he inquired in a low tone.

  She cast a sidelong glance at him and saw only honest concern on his beautiful face. “Do you want a courtesy answer or the truth?”

  Tilting up her chin, Guy forced her to look directly at him. “I spy the truth in your eyes, Rosie. Take heart. Old Andrew can fight like the very devil when his back is up.”

  She shook her head. “His arm has not yet healed.”

  Guy’s lips thinned into a hard line. “I know.”

  Brandon looked over his shoulder and winked at her. “The wagers are running two to one in Andrew’s favor, Rosie. I will be a rich man.”

  “Or a grieving one,” she whispered to the ground.

  Guy squeezed her hand. “Tis bad luck to speak of it. I saw Jack and Andrew an hour ago. They are in the best of spirits.”

  She said nothing. The walk to the jousting arena seemed to take forever. As they drew closer she heard the hum of the large crowd like a horde of angry bees in summer. “By my larkin!” She gripped Guy’s sleeve.

  The tiltyard was enormous. As they crossed the wooden bridge over a man-made ditch that surrounded the high-banked rampart, Brandon shouted, “Make way for the Countess of Thornbury. Make way!”

  Lords and ladies, varlets, scullions and potboys all turned curious eyes on Lady Alicia and her party. The crowd’s noise increased in pitch and excitement. People pointed at Rosie and whispered behind their hands. She felt as if every man mentally undressed her as she walked past them.

  “Hold up your head and look proud,” Guy whispered.

  “I wish I could die,” she replied.

  “Not today. Remember you are a lady,” her escort murmured.

  Rosie gritted her teeth. “Am not!”

  Guy gripped her hand. “Andrew will prove you are one within this next hour. He is truly your champion knight. Do your part, Rosie. Make a bold show of your support. Smile, damn you!”

  Startled out of her self-pity by Guy’s vehemence, she lifted her chin and pulled back her shoulders. She smiled left and right with a great show of teeth but no joy in her heart.

  “Look, Rosie!” Brandon pointed to a huge artificial tree that soared over a hundred feet above the plain. Hundreds of colorful shields hung from the branches amid the withering leaves of hawthorn and raspberry.

  She stared at the artifice and wondered if the many ropes that anchored it in place would hold.

  “Tis the Tree of Honor,” Brandon continued. “Look midway up on the right. You can just spy Andrew’s silver swan peeping down at us.”

  “Which one is that…that man’s?” Rosie could not bear to utter his name.

  “Hogsworthy?” Guy asked. He scanned the laden branches. “There just below Andrew’s. A little to the left. Three jagged red lines on a field of silver.” He pointed higher. “Mine is practically at the top. You have to step back to see it well. Tis a grinning wolf on a red background with crescent in the upper left corner.” He looked very pleased with himself.

  Brandon snickered. “Guy’s shield is nearer to heaven for he has such a heavenly face, eh, Archangel?”

  The countess rapped her son with the handle of her fan and gave him a cross look. Guy swore a number of violent things under his breath.

  One of the marshals led them to the south gallery. As the aggrieved lady, Rosie was seated in the center of the front row with the countess beside her. Brandon and Guy sat on the bench behind them. A gentle breeze fanned Rosie’s flushed face. Dozens of banners, some the Tudor colors of green and white, others the French blue and gold, ruffled overhead around the huge arena.

  Trembling from head to foot, Rosie smiled until she thought her face would crack. Brandon passed his mother a goblet of watered wine. She drank from it, then urged Rosie to take some.

  “Twill help you relax.”

  Rosie wished she could down the whole thing and pass out.

  “Where is the earl, my lady?” she asked, scanning the rows of people around them. “Methought he would be here.”

  Lady Alicia laughed and pointed toward a high box opposite them. “He sits with the judges. Henry appointed him the king of arms for today. He will make sure the fight is fair.”

  Rosie took another sip of her wine. She almost spilled the remainder on her skirts when a fanfare of trumpets blasted their strident call.

  The high wooden gates at the right end of the field opened and three riders cantered into the arena. The leader wore Hogsworthy’s red and silver, as did his squire who carried Gareth’s banner on a long pike. The middle rider’s colors were blue and gold.

  Guy leaned forward and whispered in Rosie’s ear. “Fitzhugh is acting as Gareth’s supporter. He was there last night.”

  Rosie shuddered. She didn’t need to ask where “there” was. She would never be able to erase that vile scene from her memory.

  With their visors up, the trio swept around the near side of the arena. When they passed Rosie, Hogsworthy spat deliberately at the ground directly in front of her. Fitzhugh merely sneered. The squire, whom Rosie also recognized as a member of that hellish feast, did not raise his eyes to hers.

  “Alackaday, I am undone!” she murmured behind her fan. “They were there too—they know.”

  The noblemen in the gallery behind her booed and shouted vindictives at Hogsworthy.

  The countess dismissed the villains on the field with a flick of her fan. “Pay them no mind. They are nothing but bedbugs. Listen to the spectators. You have already won their hearts.”

  Tis Andrew’s heart I want to win, instead of only his wager.

  The trumpets sounded again, calling the challenger to the field. The gates on the left swung wide. Rosie gasped with awe and wonder as Andrew, Jack and Jeremy charged in at a full gallop. She had never pictured Andrew astride a horse. Now she couldn’t take her eyes off him. Though his white steed was caparisoned in skyblue and silver colors and had many silver bells and tassels flying from the bridle, Andrew never looked more warlike. His armor flashed back the sun’s rays and long, colored ribbons streamed from his helm like a trailing wind.

  The crowded stands around the arena swelled with cheers as Andrew flew past them. Jack looked positively dowdy as he followed his mentor. Rosie’s heart lifted at the sight and nearly burst with pride when her champion reined to a stop before her. No matter what happened to her later, she would never forget this moment.

  A
ndrew flashed her a smile as brilliant as his armor. Then he tipped his lance to her. Its sharpened point reminded her of the serious business ahead. Lady Alicia nudged her.

  “Your handkerchief,” she whispered.

  With shaking fingers, Rosie loosened the lacy cloth and tied it around the end of the lance. She didn’t want to touch the wood that was fashioned to kill. Andrew grinned and winked at her.

  Next Jack extended his lance. Rosie was afraid to look at him. She tied the second handkerchief to his equally sharpened tip.

  “Smile at him,” the countess hissed.

  Her lips trembling with the effort, she lifted her face to look at Jack. His piercing blue eyes were hooded like those of a hawk. Then he gave her a low bow from the saddle. She covered her mouth with her hand to hide her cry of surprise. Jeremy, his face a pale mask, dipped his banner to her as he rode by. Behind the countess, Brandon shifted in his seat and hunched forward. His former merriment vanished from his face as he watched his mentor and his best friend ride to the far end of the field. He knotted his fist until his knuckles stood out white against his skin.

  Rosie swallowed and looked away. If anything happens to Andrew or Jack, Brandon will surely kill me.

  In a high-pitched voice that grated on her already taut nerves, the ermine-caped pursuivant announced the names and titles of the challenger and the defendant, as well as the reason for this joust of war. It took Rosie a moment to realize that she had been named as Lady Rosalind—Stafford? She glanced at Lady Alicia.

  “Head up! Smile,” the countess prompted her.

  “But how can they call me a Stafford?”

  The countess patted her hand. “You needed a last name, and it could not be Andrew’s, now could it?”

  Rosie clutched her fan. “I am shaking too hard to smile.”

  Brandon reached over and put his hand on her shoulder. Caught off guard by his gentle approval, she jumped.

  “Wave to Andrew,” he whispered. “He will appreciate it.”

  High in the judges’ box, Sir Thomas Cavendish pointed his white stave and bellowed, “Laissez aller! Let the combat begin for the honor of the Lady Rosalind Stafford.”