by Susan Wiggs
Scolding for all she was worth, Nance stalked after the herd of running children.
Stephen leaned against the basin of the fountain to wait. Some joyous, ineffable impulse caused him to look back at the cottage in time to see Juliana emerge with Laszlo. The aging gypsy man had given up the wandering life to settle in the snug house. They were flanked by four elegant windhounds, all sired by Pavlo on a dam brought to England from one of the early voyages to Russia.
Juliana walked toward Stephen. Lush, heavy roses bloomed in the arbor that arched over the path, creating a frame for her silk-clad form. Bearing his children had thickened her waist, and he cherished every single extra inch.
“By God,” he said, holding out his hand for her, “you do dim the beauty of roses, my love.”
She smiled as he drew her to his side. The fountain burbled quietly into the fragrant stillness, and a warm wind rustled through the ivy that grew thick upon the whimsical topiary beasts Stephen had made so long ago for a boy who hid from the world.
The memory brought a sudden thickness to his throat. Now he watched Oliver, vast and golden as a young god, leap down from the gypsy wagon and greet his half brothers and sisters.
From the second wagon, the children of Jillie and Rodion poured like an army of ants and joined in the fray.
“What has your son done this time?” Juliana asked.
“My son?” Stephen glared at her with mock indignation. “Why is he always my son when trouble arises?”
“Surely he gets his penchant for mischief from you.”
“Indeed? I think it was the fact that he was raised by a gypsy horse thief who refused to bathe—”
“Until you gave me a dunking in the millstream,” she reminded him.
He laughed and pressed his lips to her silky, sun-warmed hair. “We are both at fault. The boy’s as spoiled as last year’s cider.”
But as they watched Oliver cavorting with the little ones on the dusty road, neither regretted indulging him. He had weathered a hellish sickness, and then, when he had begun to sprout his first beard, the attacks had almost ceased. Now only on the rarest of occasions did the illness plague him.
Juliana trailed her hand in the water. “You had best find out his latest offense and prescribe a suitable penance. I wonder what he did. I hope it doesn’t involve the provost’s wife this time.”
“Or stealing the statuary in King’s College.”
“Or singing bawdy songs at chapel.”
They both tried to summon anger, and they both failed. Oliver was on his hands and knees now, surrounded by squirming children and barking dogs.
“Ah, love,” Stephen said, letting the music of his children’s laughter fill his ears. “Perhaps he simply needs a good woman to tame him.”
She smiled and shook her hand dry, then slid her arms around his neck. “Perhaps,” she whispered. “It worked for you.”
As he bent to kiss her, the wind swept a rain of petals down into the fountain, and he saw himself reflected there with his wife, a shimmering image lit by the sun glinting off clear water, the ever-widening ripples enclosing them in the circle of eternity.
* * * * *
Author's Note
In Tudor times, asthma was a misunderstood and poorly defined disease, which accounts for the often brutal and almost universally ineffective treatments endured by sufferers such as the fictional Oliver.
The symptoms of asthma had, however, been successfully treated for millennia by the Chinese and by the ancient Romans with medicine made from the shrub called ephedra. Although the use of ephedra disappeared with the fall of Rome and was not rediscovered until the nineteenth century, the medicine was still common in the east.
Itinerant gypsies, their population flung from Kashmir to the British Isles, might have encountered the ephedra plant, called mahuang by the Chinese.
Ephedrine, derived from the shrub, is still used today in the treatment of asthma.
Dear Reader,
Something old is new again. I’m very proud to bring you a brand-new edition of the Tudor Rose trilogy, first published about fifteen years ago.
These books were researched and written when the information superhighway was a mere goat track. But the themes and story lines are timeless, exemplifying the things that have always been important to me, both as a reader and a writer: fiercely honest emotion, ordinary people experiencing extraordinary challenges, passion and adventure, and of course, a satisfying ending.
In addition to being revised, the books have been given a new lease on life with fresh titles. Book One, originally titled Circle in the Water and now called At the King’s Command, was the winner of a Holt Medallion. Book Two, originally called Vows Made in Wine, is now The Maiden’s Hand, and was a finalist for a RITA® Award. Book Three, also a RITA® Award finalist, was titled Dancing on Air and is now At the Queen’s Summons.
It is with pleasure that I invite you to step back in time, into a vanished world of court intrigue, where sovereigns ruled by the scaffold, and men and women dared to risk everything for love.
2009
At the King’s Command
© 2009 Susan Wiggs
ISBN: 9780778327387
MIRA
Ed♥n