Tori Phillips (10 page)

Sir Andrew’s hold on Rosie’s hand tightened as the
lady taunted him with her shameless conquests. His smile turned frosty. “Youth must be served, lady, and I am glad that you serve it so well. Good day.” He gave her an abrupt bow and pulled Rosie away before she could attempt another curtsy.

Once out of sight and hearing of the shameless Olivia, Rosie tugged on Andrew’s sleeve. “So is
that
how a lady should act, my lord?” she asked with a sneer. “That woman is no better than any of the strumpets in Southwark. The only difference is their wardrobes.”

He arranged his features into a pleasant smile once more. “I quite agree with your astute assessment, my dear. Lady Olivia Bardolph is a polecat of the first order.”

“Were you her lover, too?” she asked. She felt she must know.

He coughed behind his hand before answering. “Tis not a proper question for a lady to ask a gentleman.”

“Haint a lady,” Rosie mumbled under her breath, “and neither is she.”

Andrew cocked his head. “I am a little deaf when outside in the sun. What did you say about being a lady, Rosie?”

She started to repeat her observation, but stopped herself before the whole of “haint.” escaped her lips. She wrinkled her nose then retorted. “I
am not
a rump-fed lady.”

Andrew nodded. “You are quite correct, my dear, but the words
rump-fed
should never issue from a lady’s mouth. Prithee amend that mistake in the future.”

As they passed a large gilded tent, their way was blocked by a long procession of servants. Each one carried two buckets of steaming water. Rosie wondered what it was that they could possibly be cooking. The
sounds of a lute, pipe and tabor wafted from inside the tent. The music was accompanied by off-key singing—and splashing.

Sir Andrew chuckled as he looked skyward at the banner waving over the revels within. “Methinks the Master of Cheviot is entertaining a merry crew of rascals.”

Rosie didn’t understand why her escort appeared so amused. “Tis early in the day for a carouse.”

“Tis near the dinner hour, but we are in France, dear Rosie, and so all usual custom is out the window—or washed away in the bath.”

“How now, my lord?”

Before Sir Andrew could reply, the lead serving boy pulled open the tent flap to reveal the most amazing scene within. Three large wooden tubs stood side by side just inside the entrance. Each tub was filled to the brim with water, and splashing each other merrily were three couples, a pair in each tub. There was no doubt in Rosie’s mind that the bathers were ladies and gentlemen for they wore lavish hats or headdresses bedecked with feathers, colored ribbons and jeweled pins. More gold and precious stones hung about their necks. Other than those accouterments, the revelers were completely naked.

A long, thin board, covered with a gold-fringed cloth, lay along the length of the tubs, creating a most unusual banqueting table. The couples sat on opposite sides of the board and feasted off small silver roundels and drank from silver goblets. Another flock of servitors hovered behind their masters and refilled the trenchers and vessels as fast as they emptied. Rosie’s mouth dropped open. The couple in the middle tub were more engrossed with fondling each other than with eating the delicious repast before them. The nearest gentleman looked up
from his plate of pink shrimps and gave Sir Andrew a broad grin of welcome.

“What ho, Ford! Come join us. By the time you and your sweet lady have divested yourselves of those too confining garments, my Lord Rothbury and his mistress will have moved to yon bed for further sport. Plenty of room. Come, wash away the dust of France with us!”

Andrew squeezed Rosie’s hand by way of warning her not to say a word. Then he executed a deep bow with many a flourish of his hand. “Sir Griffith, you do me a great honor to invite us to join in these pleasant pastimes with such good company. Alas and alack, I fear my lady and I must decline. We are late for an appointment, and twill never do to keep royalty waiting. I thank you for your offer of such joyful hospitality but beg to be excused. Another time, perchance?”

The pink-skinned man chortled, then lifted his goblet and toasted Sir Andrew and Rosie. “Fare thee well, Andrew, and that little dainty morsel by your side. You don’t know what you are missing, does he, my duck?”

With a grin full of mischief and lust, Sir Griffith reached under the water. The lady opposite him squealed with surprise and glee, then threw a strawberry at her partner. Water sloshed over the rim of their tub, soaking the canvas flooring.

“I wish you and your guests much good cheer,” Andrew replied pulling Rosie away. Ribald laughter answered him as the tent flap was lowered, shielding the further antics of the party.

Rosie could not believe what she had just witnessed. No one in her experience had ever dined in the nude. “Is
that
why ye love bathing so much, my lord?” she asked him.

He flashed her a look of naughty innocence. “Nay,
my sweet, my purposes are honorable. Cleanliness is next to godliness?”

Rosie cocked an eyebrow at him. “God was nowhere near that tent.”

Sir Andrew laughed at her remark.

“In Quince’s house, when the girls entertained their clients, at least they did it behind curtains and not in the middle of a thoroughfare. Pray tell me, my lord, for I am slow to learn, is this…sport another fashion for noble ladies?”

Sir Andrew saluted a passing noble before he answered. “Nude dining is a pastime enjoyed by many,” he remarked in an offhand tone of voice. He did not look at Rosie.

She jerked his elbow to get his attention. “Have
you
ever enjoyed it?” She had the sinking feeling that he most certainly had.

Sir Andrew fanned his flushed face with his handkerchief. “I have a number of pastimes that I enjoy, my sweet. We need not concern ourselves with them at the moment. Let us continue our—”

Rosie interrupted him. “The truth, my lord. Have
you
ever bathed naked as a jay with that peevish Lady Bardolph?”

T
hough Andrew had always prided himself to be a worldly-wise gentleman of pleasure as well as refinement, he found himself at a loss for words. Never before had he blushed to admit an amorous fling. Of course he had dallied with Olivia Bardolph—in and out of beds, baths, meadows and even once in the garderobe of Greenwich Palace. Why should he be embarrassed to tell Rosie, of all people? What was she but a shade this side of harlotry herself?

Yet, looking into her emerald eyes now filled with fiery sparks of indignation, he could not bring himself to admit it. For some unfathomable reason, he wanted to keep Rosie’s good opinion of his character. She had to trust him, or else she would not win his wager. But in his heart of hearts, Andrew knew that was not the reason why the truth stuck in his throat like a piece of dry toast.

He was saved from his predicament by a young girl who ran headlong into him from behind. Andrew caught her before she careened into a pile of horse dung.

“It seems that women are falling all over you today,
my lord,” Rosie observed dryly. “Does this happen often?”

The elfin child flashed them an enchanting smile.
“Pardonnez-moi, monsieur et madame!”
Despite her obvious haste, she executed a beautiful curtsy. “I crave your pardon, sir, but I am on a great adventure.” She glanced over her shoulder.

Rosie grinned at the delightful sprite. “Can you understand her, my lord? What is she speaking?”

Andrew hunkered down and brushed some of the dust and straw from the child’s ruby-red skirt. “She is French and she is having an adventure.” He returned the little girl’s smile. “And what is such a young lady doing alone among the English, I wonder?” he asked her in French. “And where are you running to?”

The child rolled her huge purple eyes. “Oh, la, la! I am not running
to
anything but
away
from my bodyguard. Pah! If he catches me he will take me straight back to our pavilion, and Pappa will be so angry, he will make me stay inside there forever. You would not want that to happen to me, eh?” She cocked her head.

Andrew tried to maintain a serious demeanor. “Have you not heard that the English are monsters and have no manners? Are you not afraid to be among us?”

The little girl giggled. “Pah!” She snapped her fingers. “I am well protected. See?” She pointed to a small crucifix that she wore around her neck. “And I am not finished having my adventure yet. I am looking for the fountain that spouts wine. Do you know of it?”

Andrew nodded gravely.
“Oui,
but, my little one, it stands just outside the English king’s residence. Are you not afraid he will see you?”

The child shook her head.
“Mais, non!
I am so little
that no ever notices me—except Gaston.” She made a face. “And he only notices me when I am
not
there.”

“Celeste!” A deep-throated roar filled the air.

The little maid ducked her head.
“Ma foi!
I speak his name and Gaston calls. Oh, please, kind
monsieur,
do not tell him you have seen me. Give me a little longer to enjoy my freedom. And, please, where is this marvelous fountain? I
must
see it!”

Andrew chuckled. “The fountain is straight up that avenue.” He pointed. “But you may wish to take the roundabout route so that the furious Gaston does not find you.”

Celeste threw her arms about Andrew’s neck and gave him a hug. “I am forever in your debt,
monsieur.”

“Celeste!” The furious Gaston sounded much closer.

Celeste bunched her skirts in her hands and dashed toward the nearest tent. Then she halted, whirled back to Andrew and Rosie, dropped another flawless curtsy and disappeared around the pavilion. Andrew stood and took Rosie’s hand just as a large muscular man with an enormous moustache appeared around the corner.

“Say nothing,” Andrew whispered as the man approached them.

She gave Andrew a quick nod. “Since I didn’t understand a word, I have nothing to say.” She gripped Andrew tighter.

The man halted before them.
Jesu, he is a brute!
Forcing a smile, Andrew nodded his head. “And a bright good day to you, my man,” he greeted the monster in English.

The burly Frenchman returned a sneer to Andrew, then spoke in rapid French. “Have you seen a little girl with black hair in a red gown?”

Andrew pretended he did not understand the language
in order to give the child a little more time to effect her escape. No wonder she ran! “I am sorry, but I do not understand what you said. Never could wrap my tongue around all those blessed vowels.”

The Frenchman narrowed his eyes and started to open his mouth to speak, but Andrew hurried on in English. “Ah, you need not say a word, good man, for I know just what you are thinking. You would like to cut my heart out for being such a stupid fellow, no? But there you have it. A dismal lack of education. What can I say?” He shrugged.

The other man’s answer rumbled up from his throat. “Bah! You are an imbecile in velvet. I would spit on you but I do not have the time, nor the spittle to waste on such a stupid man as you! Bah! A pox upon you, you goggle-eyed carp!”

Though Andrew fumed at the ruffian’s bold presumption, he maintained his outer calm. “And the same to you, my friend.” He gave the Frenchman a wide smile and another little bow. “If we meet again, I pray twill be at sword point!”

The Frenchman lumbered away in the wrong direction, bellowing “Celeste!” every other step. Andrew glanced at Rosie and noticed that she had turned a little pale under her light tan. He patted her arm. “Tis nothing, my dear, but a great windbag. Pay him no mind at all. The little lass will have a few more minutes to enjoy her adventure.”

Rosie gave herself a little shake. “I suppose that next you will tell me the little French girl is also a lady?”

He nodded and smiled with the pleasant memory of the child. “Aye, one in training, I must admit, but she had beautiful manners.”

His companion snorted in a very unladylike fashion.
“Ha! She is in training all right—she has already learned how to make a man chase after her.”

Andrew looked at Rosie with a new respect. “You continue to astonish me, sweetheart. There is more inside that pretty head of yours than I first thought.”

Clapping and cheering drew their attention to one of the many open patches among the pavilions. There, a troop of Spanish acrobats tumbled, capered, and walked on their hands to the amazement and astonishment of the growing crowd.

“Oh, look!” Rosie whispered with awe as one of the entertainers juggled several wicked-looking daggers and an apple. At the conclusion he severed the apple in midair. “That is the most marvelous feat I have ever seen!” She clapped her hands with joy.

Andrew smiled at her exuberance. Then it occurred to him that he had not heard her laugh with such abandon. He glanced at her and again he experienced the feeling that she reminded him of someone he had met. Andrew racked his brain to think whom she resembled.
Twill come to me in the dead of night.

The roar of a second crowd drew them to the other side of the patch. A cockfight had been in progress but two young knights had supplanted the roosters and were rolling around in the dirt, pounding each other for all they were worth. This action amused the ladies and their lordly escorts even more.

When Andrew moved closer for a better look, he was surprised to see it was the Cavendish brothers. Their colorful satin doublets were torn beyond repair and their hose were rent into rags.

“By the rood!” Andrew swore. “Leave them to their own devices for half a day and they proceed to kill each other! Guy! Brandon! Desist!”

Rosie covered her mouth to hide her laughter. Andrew grew even more angry. What sort of an impression did the wench have of the nobility when their sons rolled in the mud for the amusement of gawkers? He spied Mark Leyland, Brandon’s new page. He snatched the child out of the way of the flailing fists and feet.

“What began this fray?” he asked the boy.

The seven-year-old rolled his eyes with excitement. “My master called his brother an angel.”

Andrew groaned, then explained to Rosie, “From youth Brandon has taunted Guy for his beauty. Methinks tis fed by envy, but no matter. The worst thing you could say to Guy is to call him Angel-face.”

“It appears that Sir Brandon is getting the worst of it now,” Rosie remarked with an unashamed giggle.

Andrew squatted down to Mark’s eye level. “And just why did Sir Brandon say this to Sir Guy?”

The little rascal puffed himself up with the importance of his information. “Sir Guy asked how could my master do such devilish things at night with the daughter of a French vintner. Sir Brandon called him a spying archangel. Sir Guy made no answer but hit him instead. Tis a marvelous good fight, do you think, my lord?”

Andrew cursed the two lackwits under his breath. Several Frenchmen, who stood nearby, shouted rude observations of the Cavendishes’ fighting abilities. Unfortunately for them, both Brandon and Guy spoke French as a second tongue. The two giants stopped their personal quarrel and turned to the French interlopers.

Brandon wiped the dirt off his face. “How now, my lords?” he asked in flawless French. “You speak a brave show. Would you care to couple your bold words with action? My good brother and I will be glad to relieve you of some of your teeth.”

One of the visitors looked like he might bolt, but his companion stepped forward. “
Oui,
English dog. Twill be my pleasure.”

“Go to! A Cavendish!” Andrew shouted encouragement to his former pupils. No Frenchman alive could best his boys.

Soon there were four men whacking and pounding each other while the crowd cheered and made many wagers over the outcome.

Rosie tugged on Andrew’s sleeve. “I suppose
this
is how a true nobleman behaves?” Her words dripped with mocking mirth.

Andrew mopped his perspiring brow with his handkerchief. He winced when he saw the disdain on her face. “The lads are merely practicing their knightly skills,” he murmured.

Rosie shook her head with a sneer. She pointed to the Cavendishes who made mincemeat of the opponents. “For
this
you are called our betters? For
this
we common folk should grovel in the dirt before you? I thank you for this most educational stroll, my lord. I have learned mickle much about the ways of fine ladies and gentlemen. Do you think I should now practice how to swear and fight? Or how to lead good men astray by using my body in a wanton fashion? Shall I bathe in the nude three times a day in the middle of the road? Pray tell me, good Sir Andrew, is there anything
else
I have missed?”

He bestowed on her his widest smile, though her every word stung him like a whiplash. He took her hand and led her away from the brawl. “Aye, my sweetest Rose. Once again, you have hit the mark. We are missing our dinner. Come!”

* * *

With a terrible roar, Sir Gareth Hogsworthy backed his henchman against the palings of the practice tiltyard. Again and again he rained blows of his blunted broadsword against the splintered shield of his opponent. Young Walter Ormond sank to his knees in the soft sand and tore off his practice helm. His pale face ran with sweat.

Dropping his sword, the stripling held both his arms in front of his pimple-pocked face. “1 yield, my lord!” Ormond whined. “Pray cease! I am worn to the nub!”

Hogsworthy cuffed the puling boy with the flat of his blade. Then he drove his weapon’s tip deep into the sand. The sword quivered with the impact. Tossing a curse over his shoulder, Gareth stalked over to the near side of the ring and grabbed the leather water bag out of his squire’s hands. He poured the contents over his head, then shook off the excess much like a dog would.

Sir Edward Fitzhugh leaned his elbows on the railing and chuckled. “You fight like a demon today, Gareth,” he remarked. “Whose face do you see instead of young Ormond?” He offered his wineskin to Gareth.

The fuming lord helped himself to a deep draught before he answered. “I would that Ford were cowering on his knees in the sand.” He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “I would not have stayed my hand.”

Fitzhugh chuckled again. “All for that little bit of skirt?”

Gareth glared at his friend. “God’s death! It runs deeper than that. That gaudy-dressed game cock made me look the fool this morning. I’ll not bear such slanders. I’ll have that knave’s gizzard served on a platter. Aye! And I’ll make his wench eat it!” He threw his gauntlets and chain mail hood at his squire.

Fitzhugh picked at his fingernails. “As for the girl, get yourself another. There is more than one poesy in the field. Indeed, a goodly stock of gamesome strumpets from every point of the compass have gathered on the fringes of our camp. There is bound to be one that will appeal to your particular tastes.”

“The pox infect you, Fitzhugh! I paid good coin for that virgin.”

Edward shrugged. “Then split the bawdmaster’s fat head in twain and take back your money. Tis a bit late in the day for your wench. She’s no longer a virgin by now, I warrant.”

Gareth gnashed his teeth. “Tis
that
one I want! Ford snatched her away from me when I had won her fair and square. Now he flouts her under my nose! Did you see them walking together this forenoon as bold as you please? Why, he even has dressed her in pretty rags. I swear to you, I will not tolerate this infamy!”

Fitzhugh fanned himself with his hat. “Then challenge the man.”

Gareth took another long pull from the wineskin. He would not admit to Fitzhugh, nor any one else, that he was afraid of Andrew Ford’s skill as a swordsman. The man might dress like a peacock, but over the years at court Gareth had seen Ford in action and knew that the knight was a formidable adversary. Now that Ford was growing older, Gareth thought he could beat him but, on the other hand, a defeat at the hands of that popinjay would be worse than this morning’s embarrassment.

Then there was that brash Stafford’s challenge. The boy fought with a wild recklessness that was downright terrifying to watch. Gareth had no intention of meeting that hothead in the tiltyard, no matter how “cordial” the rules were. Gareth also knew that where Stafford went,
his two cousins, the Cavendishes, would be near at hand. Those acorns had not fallen far from the tree of their formidable father, Thornbury. Gareth knew that if he tangled with one, he would tangle with all. The odds were against him from the first. He swore another blistering oath.