Read Online The Rose at Twilight by Amanda Scott - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Amanda Scott
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her parched throat. Then the cloth moved over her cheeks, her forehead, cooling them. She slept.
Her dreams were no comfort. Monsters threatened her, and dark, bottomless chasms opened beneath her feet when she walked. A black tunnel loomed before her, and from its depths a distant light beckoned. A voice called to her, Elizabeth’s voice. But Elizabeth was at Sheriff Hutton with Neddie—gentle Neddie, now the rightful Earl of Warwick. But he would never be what his formidable grandfather had been, nor even his father. He was not guileful like Clarence was. But Neddie and Elizabeth were not at Sheriff Hutton. She remembered now. They were … somewhere.
There were monsters again, and the heat, the dreadful heat. She had to move, to get away from it. Someone was holding her. She struggled, fighting this monster who would force her down into the flames, and then suddenly she was free, but it was as if she were falling, still struggling as she plunged and whirled, down and down. The heat was terrifying. Then she was caught and someone held her again, this time someone stronger than she was. So strong, in fact, that it was useless to struggle anymore.
The voice calling to her had weakened while her thoughts were diverted, but she could hear it again now and was tempted to follow it, to step into that dark tunnel, to see what lay beyond. Anything would be better than the flames, and the pain.
“No, Alys.” Only two words, but the voice unmistakable. Anne’s voice—gentle, sorrowful, firm. The tunnel faded. She became aware of other voices, nearer at hand. One was Jonet’s, another Sir Nicholas’s. There were at least two others. Oddly pleased with herself for recognizing the fact that there were four voices, Alys slept again, heavily and without the dreams.
The next time she awoke, she heard something altogether different. Someone was playing a lute and singing in a deep, pleasant voice, in a lilting language she had never heard before. Curiosity lent her strength, and she forced her eyes open.
At first she saw only the warm orange glow from the oil lamp, casting dark, dancing shadows on the walls of the tent. It was enough to remind her of where she was, and she wanted to see who was singing. Her mind suggested a name, but the very thought of it was absurd. He would not sing to her. And her imagination boggled when she tried to envision a graceful lute in his hands.
But it was Sir Nicholas, sitting on a joint stool by her pallet. The lute looked ridiculously small in his large hands, cradled against his broad chest, but his expression was gentle. When her gaze met his, she saw his satisfaction, but his voice did not falter, and she was glad. He had a wonderful voice for singing, deep and full. She could not understand a word of the song, but it comforted her, and she wanted him to go on and on.
When he fell silent at last, she said in a raspy voice that sounded completely unlike her own, “What was that?”
“A Welsh ballad,” he said quietly. “Only a tale of a boy and his sheep, but I liked it when I was a lad and fond of roaming, when I could, with the shepherds in the hills near my home. My mother used to sing it to me. How do you feel?”
“Hungry,” she said, “and thirsty.”
“Good,” he said. “We have broth keeping warm over a fire, and young Ian rode to Bawtry Priory to fetch bread for you.”
“You made Ian go?” Indignation put energy into her voice.
“He wanted to go,” Sir Nicholas told her, getting up and setting the instrument aside. “Your young Scotsman does not trust the English monks to give any of the other men fresh bread. He’s always had an eye for the lasses,” he added with a wry smile, “but I think you have become rather special to him. Rest now. I’ll send someone with your broth.”
She dozed again, but the sound of others in the tent soon roused her, and she made no objection when Sir Nicholas knelt to raise her so that Jonet could put cushions behind her.
Her dreams were no comfort. Monsters threatened her, and dark, bottomless chasms opened beneath her feet when she walked. A black tunnel loomed before her, and from its depths a distant light beckoned. A voice called to her, Elizabeth’s voice. But Elizabeth was at Sheriff Hutton with Neddie—gentle Neddie, now the rightful Earl of Warwick. But he would never be what his formidable grandfather had been, nor even his father. He was not guileful like Clarence was. But Neddie and Elizabeth were not at Sheriff Hutton. She remembered now. They were … somewhere.
There were monsters again, and the heat, the dreadful heat. She had to move, to get away from it. Someone was holding her. She struggled, fighting this monster who would force her down into the flames, and then suddenly she was free, but it was as if she were falling, still struggling as she plunged and whirled, down and down. The heat was terrifying. Then she was caught and someone held her again, this time someone stronger than she was. So strong, in fact, that it was useless to struggle anymore.
The voice calling to her had weakened while her thoughts were diverted, but she could hear it again now and was tempted to follow it, to step into that dark tunnel, to see what lay beyond. Anything would be better than the flames, and the pain.
“No, Alys.” Only two words, but the voice unmistakable. Anne’s voice—gentle, sorrowful, firm. The tunnel faded. She became aware of other voices, nearer at hand. One was Jonet’s, another Sir Nicholas’s. There were at least two others. Oddly pleased with herself for recognizing the fact that there were four voices, Alys slept again, heavily and without the dreams.
The next time she awoke, she heard something altogether different. Someone was playing a lute and singing in a deep, pleasant voice, in a lilting language she had never heard before. Curiosity lent her strength, and she forced her eyes open.
At first she saw only the warm orange glow from the oil lamp, casting dark, dancing shadows on the walls of the tent. It was enough to remind her of where she was, and she wanted to see who was singing. Her mind suggested a name, but the very thought of it was absurd. He would not sing to her. And her imagination boggled when she tried to envision a graceful lute in his hands.
But it was Sir Nicholas, sitting on a joint stool by her pallet. The lute looked ridiculously small in his large hands, cradled against his broad chest, but his expression was gentle. When her gaze met his, she saw his satisfaction, but his voice did not falter, and she was glad. He had a wonderful voice for singing, deep and full. She could not understand a word of the song, but it comforted her, and she wanted him to go on and on.
When he fell silent at last, she said in a raspy voice that sounded completely unlike her own, “What was that?”
“A Welsh ballad,” he said quietly. “Only a tale of a boy and his sheep, but I liked it when I was a lad and fond of roaming, when I could, with the shepherds in the hills near my home. My mother used to sing it to me. How do you feel?”
“Hungry,” she said, “and thirsty.”
“Good,” he said. “We have broth keeping warm over a fire, and young Ian rode to Bawtry Priory to fetch bread for you.”
“You made Ian go?” Indignation put energy into her voice.
“He wanted to go,” Sir Nicholas told her, getting up and setting the instrument aside. “Your young Scotsman does not trust the English monks to give any of the other men fresh bread. He’s always had an eye for the lasses,” he added with a wry smile, “but I think you have become rather special to him. Rest now. I’ll send someone with your broth.”
She dozed again, but the sound of others in the tent soon roused her, and she made no objection when Sir Nicholas knelt to raise her so that Jonet could put cushions behind her.
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