Free The Rose at Twilight by Amanda Scott

When he let her lie back again, she sighed, exhausted.
    “I am as limp as a rag,” she muttered, “and my skin feels as if it might crack, like a hide that has been dried in the sun.”
    “Both feelings will pass,” he said. “I shall leave you to Mistress Hawkins now. Let her feed you.” He said the last as though he thought she must be commanded to allow Jonet to serve her, but before she had time to protest, he was gone.
    Jonet said quietly, “We thought we had lost thee.”
    “I do have the sickness then,” Alys murmured. “I thought that must be it. But why did I not die?”
    “We thought tha’ didst, just before yon fever broke. Tha’ wert wild wi’ it,” she went on, her renewed distress evident to anyone who knew her by the stronger hint of Yorkshire in her accent. “Tha’ fought me till I couldna hold thee. That were when Sir Nicholas came and said he’d look after thee himself. He said women sometimes do survive, though men rarely, and he meant to see thee through. But then, after the wildness, tha’ wert so still we thought thee gone. He shouted at thee, bellowing thy name, and commanding thee to live. And when tha’ didst stir, I thought the lad would weep like a wee bairn. Though he did no such thing,” she added more briskly, recollecting herself.
    “I suppose you think him kind,” Alys said, “but he did say before that he will be blamed for aught that happens to me.”
    “Aye,” Jonet agreed, but her tone was dubious. “’Twas a dire sickness, my lady, terrible to behold. Before you grew so wild, we had that herb woman here—the same as stayed with his lordship—but Sir Nicholas sent her away when she said giving you water would kill you. He said he could not believe it would do any such thing. You were crying out for it so, and you were so hot! He just wanted to cool you, I think. He is a kind man, mistress, for all that he be a Welshman and at one with the Tudor.” She held up a horn mug. “Drink this now.”
    Alys sipped slowly. She could taste herbs and the flavor of beef, and it was good. She wanted more, but Alys shook her head. “He said you must not drink too much at once, or drink too fast.”
    “He also said there was bread.”
    “Aye, and so there be, but you are not to have it till we see you do keep this broth within.” Her voice sounded weary, and Alys looked at her. Jonet’s expression was haggard and careworn, and her eyes were dim, lacking their usual sparkle.
    Fear leaped within her. “Jonet, are you ill?”
    “Nay, my lady, only a wee bit tired. He told me to sleep, but ’tis not likely I could do so with my lamb ailing, and so I told him. But he is not a man to cross, I can tell you. The way he spoke when I refused to lie down made the blood freeze in my veins, so I did not dare argue when he ordered me to go away.”
    “He ordered you away?” Alys sipped again.
    “Aye,” Jonet told her. “To begin, he let me lie down on my pallet yonder, but when he saw I was not likely to sleep there, he sent for one of his men to take me to another tent and see me laid down. ’Twas a lout name of Hugh with a lot of other names after, like Sir Nicholas has, and the biggest man I ever laid eyes upon. An ugsome brute. Sithee, when I tell you he be the same as flogged poor Ian … well, I shall say no more, but if I were a more timid sort nor what I am, he’d fair have raised the gooseflesh on my skin, and that be the truth of the matter.”
    “But what did he do?”
    “He took me to another tent, yonder, and fetched out blankets, making it clear he meant to cover me with his own hands. But I was not going to allow that, I can tell you. I told him that he could take himself off, but he just stood like Goliath and said he would wait till I slept. Called me his wee minikin, too, as if I were six and not nigh onto five-and-thirty years of age. Have you ever heard the like?”
    “Well, if he did not harm you,” Alys murmured sleepily, “I suppose he must have