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Authors: Amanda Scott
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burial of her family.
Three rough coffins were being carried from the castle to the graveyard on a nearby rise, above the river. She hurried to find Sir Nicholas, cursing the headache that still haunted her, wishing for more energy, knowing the day would be a long one.
The wood coffins had been placed next to three hastily dug holes in the muddy ground. A brown-robed monk stepped up to the first of them, making the sign of the cross above it. Sir Nicholas, beside him, motioned to Alys to come forward.
“I do not approve of this,” he said, “but the priest agrees that you ought to look upon your dead.”
“’Tis the right of the living,” murmured the monk.
“Aye, and it may be her death as well,” Sir Nicholas retorted. “Men who die of the plague are buried rapidly, often without ceremony, in order to protect the living.”
“This sickness is not the plague,” the monk reminded him, “and even those who die of plague have the right to a proper burial, my son.”
“I have agreed.” Merion signed to one of his men. “Open her ladyship’s coffin.”
Alys stepped forward, not really wanting to look upon her mother’s face, but knowing she must if she was to see the boy who was said to be her brother. When the coffin lid was raised, the figure that was revealed meant little to her. She had scarcely known her mother, and she was able to look at her face with little emotion. Alys had brought her rosary, and silently she prayed, made the sign of the cross, and stepped back.
The second coffin was opened. She stepped forward and stared down in amazement. To the best of her knowledge she had never seen the boy before, but his blond good looks were more familiar to her than her mother’s face had been. She had seen King Edward more than once, and she knew Neddie, who was the son of Edward’s second brother, the late Duke of Clarence. If this boy was not as much a Plantagenet as either of them …
Her thoughts froze her in place. When she realized who the boy might be, she told herself she was mad to think such a thing, but the thoughts that tumbled over themselves, racing through her mind, made her dizzy. Conscious of Sir Nicholas standing beside her, she knew that she must do nothing to arouse his suspicions. She must click her beads and move her lips, no matter that her muscles refused to obey her. Tears spilled from her eyes, her headache raged, her skin felt as though it were aflame, and her breath came in short, ragged gasps. Her face felt numb, her hands and feet, too. One moment they burned, the next they tingled with pins and needles.
When she collapsed, Sir Nicholas caught her in his arms.
4
H ER BODY WAS BURNING up. Her head ached, and her stomach felt as though knives were cutting her from within. Worst of all was that she felt too weak to move, even to open her eyes. There were voices, low but angry, both of them, arguing about water.
Water. Alys tried to speak. She would give her best gown and girdle for a sip of water. It was no use. She could not move, and she seemed to have no control over her voice.
“Nay, tha’ mustna!” The crackling voice was familiar but not so much so that she could identify the speaker. “Sithee, t’ sickness mun be sweated from ’er.”
The voice took her back to her father’s deathbed, to an echo of the puzzling words he had muttered. He seemed to be in the tent now, straight and strong as he had been before she went away to Middleham. She tried to call him, but he faded when a voice said, “She is delirious; she will die without water.” The voice was not her father’s. It was Nicholas, Sir Nicholas, the Tudor’s man, the enemy. Without opening her eyes, she could see him, could almost feel the crispness of his curls beneath her palm.
Why could she not move her hands? It was as though she were tied up, her arms bound to her sides, her feet so heavy she could not stir them. A cold, damp cloth touched her lips and blessedly cool water trickled down
Three rough coffins were being carried from the castle to the graveyard on a nearby rise, above the river. She hurried to find Sir Nicholas, cursing the headache that still haunted her, wishing for more energy, knowing the day would be a long one.
The wood coffins had been placed next to three hastily dug holes in the muddy ground. A brown-robed monk stepped up to the first of them, making the sign of the cross above it. Sir Nicholas, beside him, motioned to Alys to come forward.
“I do not approve of this,” he said, “but the priest agrees that you ought to look upon your dead.”
“’Tis the right of the living,” murmured the monk.
“Aye, and it may be her death as well,” Sir Nicholas retorted. “Men who die of the plague are buried rapidly, often without ceremony, in order to protect the living.”
“This sickness is not the plague,” the monk reminded him, “and even those who die of plague have the right to a proper burial, my son.”
“I have agreed.” Merion signed to one of his men. “Open her ladyship’s coffin.”
Alys stepped forward, not really wanting to look upon her mother’s face, but knowing she must if she was to see the boy who was said to be her brother. When the coffin lid was raised, the figure that was revealed meant little to her. She had scarcely known her mother, and she was able to look at her face with little emotion. Alys had brought her rosary, and silently she prayed, made the sign of the cross, and stepped back.
The second coffin was opened. She stepped forward and stared down in amazement. To the best of her knowledge she had never seen the boy before, but his blond good looks were more familiar to her than her mother’s face had been. She had seen King Edward more than once, and she knew Neddie, who was the son of Edward’s second brother, the late Duke of Clarence. If this boy was not as much a Plantagenet as either of them …
Her thoughts froze her in place. When she realized who the boy might be, she told herself she was mad to think such a thing, but the thoughts that tumbled over themselves, racing through her mind, made her dizzy. Conscious of Sir Nicholas standing beside her, she knew that she must do nothing to arouse his suspicions. She must click her beads and move her lips, no matter that her muscles refused to obey her. Tears spilled from her eyes, her headache raged, her skin felt as though it were aflame, and her breath came in short, ragged gasps. Her face felt numb, her hands and feet, too. One moment they burned, the next they tingled with pins and needles.
When she collapsed, Sir Nicholas caught her in his arms.
4
H ER BODY WAS BURNING up. Her head ached, and her stomach felt as though knives were cutting her from within. Worst of all was that she felt too weak to move, even to open her eyes. There were voices, low but angry, both of them, arguing about water.
Water. Alys tried to speak. She would give her best gown and girdle for a sip of water. It was no use. She could not move, and she seemed to have no control over her voice.
“Nay, tha’ mustna!” The crackling voice was familiar but not so much so that she could identify the speaker. “Sithee, t’ sickness mun be sweated from ’er.”
The voice took her back to her father’s deathbed, to an echo of the puzzling words he had muttered. He seemed to be in the tent now, straight and strong as he had been before she went away to Middleham. She tried to call him, but he faded when a voice said, “She is delirious; she will die without water.” The voice was not her father’s. It was Nicholas, Sir Nicholas, the Tudor’s man, the enemy. Without opening her eyes, she could see him, could almost feel the crispness of his curls beneath her palm.
Why could she not move her hands? It was as though she were tied up, her arms bound to her sides, her feet so heavy she could not stir them. A cold, damp cloth touched her lips and blessedly cool water trickled down
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