by Ruth Kaufman
Her gaze bored through him. “You lie. But that matters not as long as you can pay.”
“I can pay.” He hoped he hid his surprise at being caught out.
“We might try mandragora officiarum,” she said, her voice rich and full.
He liked that she said “we,” as though they were partners. “How do you use it?”
“It must be smelled or spread on the skin.”
How would he get close enough to Amice to accomplish that? “No, no, no! I need something she can eat.”
“It is the best substance I know to do what you require. It is not meant to be eaten. I can prepare a lovely, sweet-smelling cream.”
“Hmm. What will happen if she uses it?”
“She will become sleepy. But I warn you, take care. If she uses too much, she’ll fall asleep…or die. And if she uses it too often, she will die.”
He waved her concerns away with a swipe of his hand. “When will it be ready?”
“Mandragora, otherwise known as mandrake, is not easy to obtain at this time of year.”
“Did you say mandrake, as in mandrake root?” Harry shuddered. “I’ve heard that’s dangerous. The root looks like a person, legs and all. They say the plant screams when uprooted, and if you hear it you can lose your mind.”
“That does not concern you. I have means to obtain what I need,” she said. “Come back in four weeks.”
Harry regained his composure and adjusted his hat. “I’ll double what you ask if you make it two.” If only Edwin could hear him bargain.
She raised a white eyebrow. “Done. If something goes wrong, I never saw you before.”
“What could go wrong?” He liked to believe he had the ability to see several steps ahead. But he always lost at chess.
The apothecary frowned. “What could go wrong? If the person dies because you lack the skill to administer the drug properly. If this person happened to be of sufficient importance that an investigation ensued.”
“Oh, I assure you I will use utmost care.” He knew how to be humble when it was required. “I appreciate your advice.”
He smiled. At last, things were progressing smoothly.
Chapter 17
April 1454
Amice was in the midst of packing when she heard a knock. She gasped with hope. Nicholas? If only he had come to her. But she hadn’t spoken to him since their quarrel. Nor had she spoken to Belinda since York was named protector.
She had alienated her closest friends, so it seemed a good time for short visits to her uncle’s home in Lincolnshire and Castle Rising.
Her visitor was Belinda, elaborately gowned as always, with delicate embroidery and beads for trim and a fur hemline. A heart-shaped headdress with a long veil made her seem regal.
“I’m glad to see you,” Amice began.
Belinda had a bitter look in her eye as she indicated the piles of clothing on Amice’s bed. “Running away, are you?”
“I beg your pardon?” She stopped folding a pile of underclothes.
“The disgrace with Margaret. She’s said she’s forgiven you, but how could she, really, after what you’ve done? I understand why you’d want to flee. Having to hold your head up after being tossed into the Tower can’t be easy.”
Amice had heard others tell of Belinda’s scathing tongue. Since she’d never fallen prey to it, she’d thought the tales mere fodder for gossip.
“Still, your travel plans are the topic of choice,” Belinda continued. “I came to bid you farewell.”
“Really?” Why would anyone care where she went?
“Yes, as I was breaking the fast with Nicholas this morning, I heard several people discussing your journey. They think you’re leaving in disgrace.”
So that was her game. Had Nicholas resumed his friendship with Belinda, or was Belinda hoping to make her jealous? Did she know Nicholas had said he loved her? That they’d quarreled?
Well. She wasn’t sure if Nicholas still felt the same, but she did. Despite their differences, despite everything, she felt more at peace with him than without him.
Amice continued packing with a calm she didn’t feel. “Have you been spending a lot of time with Nicholas?”
“He seems more receptive of late. A shame he’ll never marry.”
As though he’d marry you? But the comment had gotten her attention. “Why do you say that?”
“Ah, so he hasn’t told you about his parents?”
Jealousy mixed with sadness stabbed her chest. Why hadn’t he talked more about such things? Why hadn’t she asked? Maybe Belinda was making all this up.
“They fought constantly, sometimes threw things, sometimes hit each other. That convinced Nicholas no man and woman could live together happily for years and years. He told me so,” she said.
Strange to discuss Nicholas’s most private thoughts with Belinda, stranger still that she knew none of this, but curiosity kept her going. “Surely he’s seen good marriages, where couples stay in love or at least enjoy being wed?”
“He says those people hide their misery and show the world false smiles.”
“Doesn’t he want an heir?”
Belinda picked up one of Amice’s chemises and held it up to the light. “I’d have thought he’d have told you. Well, as he told me, he’s not certain what, if anything, he will inherit. His mother holds any lands that might be his, and as a second son….”
No. Nicholas couldn’t have spent so much time with her, said he loved her, made love to her, only to get access to her money, her lands. Amice wouldn’t admit to Belinda that she and Nicholas barely discussed his family. Amice had looked forward to talking of such things, of goals and dreams. She’d delighted in images of the sharing they’d do. Politics and quarrels had gotten in the way.
Belinda was still talking. “…and working for the king, has probably not received his due. Well, I must go. Have a wonderful journey.”
The second the door closed, Amice’s tears began to fall. What had she been thinking, that Nicholas had been as miserable without her as she was without him? Belinda couldn’t lie about spending time with him. It would be too easy to verify.
Belinda had encouraged her to write poems for York. But she had asked to get involved in the first place. Or had Belinda known Amice was behind the bush and read the letter aloud apurpose? Could Belinda be devious enough, clever enough to create a scheme to embroil Amice in the activity Nicholas would despise most? To draw them apart?
She rinsed the bad taste in her mouth with water from the pitcher by her bed and flexed her trembling hands.
Nicholas had never mentioned his hatred of marriage. How could he love her without wanting more? Perhaps love didn’t mean the same thing to a man as it did to a woman.
Amice would be away from court for a few weeks. The queen had granted her request to visit her home because nothing had changed with Henry’s condition and none was anticipated. She’d spend the majority of the time working up the courage to ask Nicholas many difficult questions upon her return.
Belinda waited until she saw her nemesis ride away. Now she’d be free to pursue Nicholas. As the French said, Ou chat na rat regne. Where there is no cat, the rat is king. Revenge would taste as delicious whether Amice was here to see it or not.
Amice’s dismay had been priceless. Likely her doubts would grow as her time away from him increased.
Securing a seat next to Nicholas at the evening meal proved a simple matter. As servers made their way through the hall with heaped platters, she prepared to have the cupbearer keep filling Nicholas’s cup with strong ale. That she’d never seen him so melancholy before bothered her, for it would make her task more difficult. But in her gown, cut lower than Henry would approve were he able, she had hopes of success. If only Nicholas would look at all she offered.
Why wouldn’t he drink? If she imbibed, perhaps he’d join her.
“The ale seems particularly fresh.”
“I prefer the cider.” He turned to talk to the man
on his other side.
Belinda wound up drinking a bit more than she’d planned, and as she was too excited to eat, her head spun. Time to make her move. She put her hand under the table, high on Nicholas’s thigh. She tasted success when his hand rested atop hers. But he merely put her hand back in her own lap.
One advance rejected. No matter. She had many more up her sleeve.
The ale really was delicious. She waved for the cupbearer to fill her cup and top off Nicholas’s still full one.
“The fairest daisy petals lack the power to keep all safe in this treacherous hour.”
“What did you say?” Nicholas demanded.
She stilled. Now she had his full attention. But the flow of ale had to stop right now, or she’d end up in trouble. “It’s from a poem I heard.”
“And where did you hear that poem?” He leaned closer to hear her answer. His scent went to her head faster than the drink.
She couldn’t think clearly. The first words that popped into her head were, “I wrote it.”
Hmmm. He didn’t look very happy about that. Nor was it true, was it? Why would she write such a poem? Why would she write at all?
“You wrote that poem? Do you know how many hours of work that and other seditious, slanderous tomes are causing me? I’m charged with finding all the copies that have been posted in a vain attempt to stop rumors from spreading.”
Nicholas wouldn’t want to be with her if he was angry at her. Had she written the poem? Of course not. Who had? Ah, now she remembered. “I meant to say, Amice wrote it.”
Let her be the one he was mad at.
He gripped her shoulders tightly. “Are you certain? Amice wrote those poems? How do you know?”
She giggled. Her head fell back because she could no longer hold it up. “‘Prince of Nothing.’ ‘The Falcon Eats the Daisy.’”
Nicholas cringed upon hearing the title of one of the true poems, which referred to the Duke of York’s badge, the falcon, and Margaret’s symbol, the marguerite, or daisy. Was Belinda making this up, or had Amice’s betrayal taken on a new dimension? He would get to the bottom of this.
Suddenly he realized that he’d been so focused on their conversation he hadn’t thought how they must appear to the other diners. He must look as though he was about to strangle Belinda or kiss her. With her head lolling back, her full breasts were almost in his face. Neither they, nor she, held temptation for him.
He doubted any woman ever would again.
Amice walked into her cousin’s new brick castle at Tattershall, cheeks icy from her brisk walk. Lord Cromwell sat by the huge fireplace in the parlor. He looked older than she’d remembered. His light brown hair had thinned.
“Hello, Cuzralph!” Her childhood nickname for him used to make her smile.
“Amice. Please tell me what is bothering you. You’ve not smiled since you arrived.”
“Am I that easy to read?”
He rose and took her hands. “I see sadness. Uncertainty, which I don’t recall you having even as a girl. And something else I can’t quite define, as though you’ve given up. Why?”
“Am I so different from other women, to want things I do not, cannot have?”
“Ah, there it is. What don’t you have that you want?” He sat in one of the chairs by the hearth and indicated the other.
Amice felt tears gathering as she sank into the chair embroidered with tiny yellow flowers. Could she tell Cromwell what she’d told no one else? Her cousin had done so much for her, even risking his standing with the queen to free her from the Tower.
She poured a cup of cider from a pitcher on a carved table. How could she explain? Her cousin fully supported Henry, like Nicholas.
Nicholas. Amice pushed his name and image out of her mind. If he’d known she was leaving court, he obviously didn’t care, for he hadn’t even said farewell. She hadn’t gone to him, for nothing had changed.
Even if she agreed to never lift a finger for York again, what would she get in return? Nicholas’s continued friendship, yes. Friendship alone wasn’t enough to persuade her to change her mind. But if he could have, would have offered marriage…would that be sufficient? Was spending your life with the man you loved more important than your duty?
Apprehension clung to her like dust.
She wanted Nicholas to love her, but wouldn’t settle for less than the security of marriage. She’d been a fool to think whatever time they could snatch would be enough. She yearned to wake up next to him every day, be able to walk proudly about court, Castle Rising, or anywhere with Nicholas at her side, as her husband. Not her secret lover.
Unfortunately, now that she knew what love was, she could never accept any other man as her husband. If what she now desired made her greedy, so be it. She didn’t want to lower her eyes each time Nicholas was in the room for fear someone would read the affection in them. The religious and public confirmation of their feelings was important.
Her cousin sat quietly, waiting as she sorted through her thoughts. The patience he’d learned through long years of dealing with the king stood him well now.
“I am in love, Cuzralph, and don’t know what to do.”
“Ah. So that was why you refused Margaret.”
“I didn’t want this to happen,” she said.
“Would Margaret approve of him? Would I? Who is he?”
“Yes and no, yes and no, Sir Nicholas Grey.” Amice dropped her head into her hands.
“Let’s take this one step at a time. In the right circumstances, Nicholas could be an excellent choice for you. The timing is wrong. Margaret and Henry naturally looked higher.
“For what would Nicholas bring to the crown? Nothing. He’s already Henry’s man. But wait.” He leaned forward. “You’ve said nothing of his feelings foryou.”
Amice bit her lip. “At one time he loved me, so he said. But we quarreled over something serious…that I’d rather not discuss now. We haven’t spoken since.” And I miss him so.
Cromwell’s eyebrows rose. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Not unless you can make him forgive me and love me again.” She sighed, wishing she could will away the torment in her heart. “Just having someone to listen helps.”
Unless she and Nicholas could resolve their differences, unless the queen changed her mind, there was nothing anyone could do.
Harry finally had the cream, but thought he was going to lose his mind. And he hadn’t even heard the mandrake root scream. He’d only seen Amice once. She’d been carrying a book, hurrying as if to spend as little time as possible in the freezing winds.
He’d observed the maids until he found a likely candidate, Bronwyn. Welsh, young, with sparkling eyes and sweet lips. Maybe he’d have other uses for her.
He wore Edwin’s clothes when he approached her in the corridor near the hall. Wouldn’t do for her to know he was a scullery boy. Scullery man.
Harry spoke to her several times before broaching the subject of the lotion. Each time, he gave her a little trinket. By the end of March, he felt she was malleable enough.
“Bronwyn. I was wondering if you could do me a favor.”
She smiled back, the innocent, trusting smile of a virgin. “What do you need, milord?”
How he liked that she called him that. It sounded even better with her thick Welsh accent. “My cousin is visiting, and I’d like to surprise her with a gift. A special lotion with her favorite scent. Since the gift is to be a surprise, I’d like you to leave it in her chamber. I cannot risk being seen.” That was true enough. “I’ve written a note for you to leave.”
“What does the note say?”
“Cousin, a gift to welcome you.” The maid, of course, couldn’t read. The note really said, “From one who will have you.”
“I will do it. How kind you are.”
“Please let me know when you’ll bring it. I’d like to be nearby to share her surprise.”
“Why don’t we go now?”
After all this time, after
exercising every ounce of patience, Amice would be his.
“Bronwyn, I almost forgot. The cream was quite costly and the scent is powerful, so she is only to use a very little. She’s to put it on the sides of her head, here.” He touched his temples. “Can you remember that?”
“Yes, milord.”
But Amice wasn’t in her room.
“We can try again on the morrow,” Bronwyn said amiably, handing him back the blue jar.
The next morning, Bronwyn was found dead.
Upon hearing of her demise, Harry opened the jar, recoiling from the almost sickly sweet scent. How much had Bronwyn stolen? Obviously the girl hadn’t been able to resist the lotion he’d made sound so wonderful and had used too much.
The setback proved that he’d have to apply the lotion. It would not do at all for Amice to end up like Bronwyn. Not at all.
Chapter 18
Tension gripped Nicholas at the prospect of talking to York face to face. Though protector, York remained his liege’s, and thus his, opponent. His nerves might snap if they stretched any tighter.
His future, and England’s, were at stake.
York nodded a greeting. He sat behind a large desk covered with rolls of parchment and maps. As Nicholas sat in a high-backed wooden chair, York indicated the cup of wine that had already been poured. Nicholas pulled it closer, slightly wary, his other hand resting on the lion’s head carved into the chair’s arm. He’d have to stay on guard with this man.
For a moment, each sought to maintain his portion of the battlefield; only the narrowest line down the center could belong to both. If they handled their swords well.
Adjusting the embroidered collar of his robe, York seemed weary. The creases beside his eyes were a bit deeper, the blue of his eyes dimmer than the last time Nicholas had seen him. The strain of responsibility was taking its toll.