“But what will you do? Will you not wait with me? There is so much to be said.”
“There is naught to be said. I shall return to Hatfield tonight, as soon as my horse is rested.”
She grasped his doublet again, her fingers trembling. “I’m sorry, Kit, I’m so sorry.” Tears sprang to her eyes as she looked up at him, scanning his face for any little spark of hope that he still cared for her.
When he pulled her roughly against him and pressed his mouth hungrily over hers, she thought she had her answer. But when he thrust her off and walked away, she knew the kiss had been a farewell, not an absolution.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Alys’ night spent as a guest in the Tower was fraught with demons. She lay on an unfamiliar bed, unable to sleep, unable to eat, trying not to be afraid of the unfamiliar noises. It was impossible to rid her mind of those who’d met an untimely end there, whether publicly, like Anne Boleyn, or in secret, like the two young princes, nephews of Richard the Third. Their spirits roamed the passageways still, protesting their fates. Every shadow concealed an assassin with a dagger. She would have sold her soul to have Kit beside her, his comforting arms protecting her. But she’d ruined everything.
But by the time morning cast its grey fingers through her window, she’d erected a fragile wall around her damaged heart. She would openly confess her folly to any who questioned her. She’d actively seek forgiveness—and when it was not given, she’d not complain. One day, soon, she would recover, and be herself again. The time would come for her return to Selwood, where she’d put all to rights and live quietly, expecting nothing, deserving nothing.
When she arrived back at Hatfield under the protection of Rupert, Lettice insisted she be put to bed, and after a whispered conversation with Rupert, they informed her they were sending for a physician. She made no demur—a sleeping draught, and a poultice or arnica ointment for her cheek, would be most welcome.
And sleep she did—she drowsed and woke, woke and drowsed until she lost all idea of the passage of time. She suspected she’d been in bed for days. Clarity didn’t really return until she heard Jane Haslitt’s voice.
“Sit up, Alys—you will want to hear this. Are you fully awake? Lord, but your shift is crumpled—you look as if you have spent the last three days in a cow byre, not in bed. Come now, here’s some cold water for your face and hands.”
She sat up, allowed her face to be gently sponged, then made an effort to smile.
“There, now you are back with us. I would not waste the queen’s praise on someone but half-awake.”
The queen’s praise? She shook her head. “What time is it? Is it day? Why are the shutters still closed?”
“They were closed, partly so you could rest undisturbed, and partly for your safety. Although all danger is now passed, I understand.”
“What danger?” She sat up straighter, her breathing suddenly shallow.
“Oh, I sound like an addle-pate. Let me tell you what I came to tell you without any further questions.”
Jane cleared her throat, then unfolded a piece of paper and read from it.
“Her Royal Majesty Queen Elizabeth of England and what not and so on… sends her warmest thanks to Mistress Alys Barchard, lately of Selwood Manor in the shire of Suffolk, and decrees that the aforesaid Alys will not only have Selwood Manor as her own holding, but also the erstwhile manors of Stansted Magna, Lower… oh, the names matter not! Do you see, Alys? She has given you half the holdings attaindered from Hubert Norris, Richard Avery and Sir Thomas Kirlham. What an honor! Are you not pleased? Wherefore such a heavy frown?”
Her head reeled. “What is she giving them to me for? What has she to thank me for?”
“What has she to—? Merciful heavens, wench, this is not the time for modesty. The word of your bravery, your daring, is all around the court. How you entered into a secret plan with Sir Christopher Ludlow to sound it about that you wished to visit Mistress Aspinall. And that by doing so, you flushed that serpent Norris out into the open and, with yourself as bait, uncovered his connection with the plotters in a such a fashion that he could make no denial. ’Tis a pity Sir Christopher was wounded in the event, but he’s walking well enough now, and you seem nearly recovered, too. Now, as I am not needed elsewhere, I shall sit here while you tell me everything that transpired.”
This was all too much. She must be dreaming or feverish from the medicines, and hallucinating. But Jane Haslitt was very real, as she settled herself at the foot of Alys’ bed with an expectant expression.
“I really don’t understand—”
“Wait, there’s someone outside the door.” Jane got to her feet as the door was quietly unlatched and opened.
Alys must be dreaming. Her new visitor was Kit.
He lingered in the doorway, frowning slightly at Jane, not even looking at Alys. “Ah, Sir Christopher—your ears must have been burning. You’ll be pleased to learn Mistress Barchard is a little better. How could she not be, in view of the honor recently done her by the queen?”
Kit’s brown eyes glanced in Alys’ direction, sending skitters of awareness across her skin.
“I should leave. Having two visitors is enough—I would not tire her.”
“Why break the habit of the last few days?” Jane gave Alys a knowing look. “He has been in to see you every morning, even though he knew you weren’t awake.”
His cheeks colored, and he cleared his throat. “I have tidings for Mistress Barchard, but fear she’s not yet strong enough to receive them.” He turned to go, but Jane reached the door before him.
“Nonsense. But I sense
