Free The Rose at Twilight by Amanda Scott Page B

picked up the horn mug from the table where Jonet had set it and moved toward her, drawing the stool close to her pallet and sitting down.
    “Can you sit up unaided?” he asked.
    “I do not know.” She continued to glare at him.
    “I can make allowance,” he said evenly, “for a temper made uncertain by illness, but you ought not to speak so sharply to Mistress Hawkins. She has worn herself out with worry over you, so this fractious mood of yours must distress her sorely.”
    She opened her mouth to tell him her moods were no concern of his, but his words had struck home, and she shut it again. Her chest ached suddenly, and her throat hurt, and she did not think either of these new pains stemmed from her illness. When her eyes filled with tears, she shut them tight, but she could not stop the tears. They trickled silently down her cheeks.
    When she felt his arm move beneath her shoulders, lifting her, she had all she could do to keep from flinging herself onto his chest and sobbing until she could sob no more. The urge startled her and steadied her, and when she opened her eyes at last, she found it was no longer difficult to meet his gaze.
    “I should not have spoken so,” she muttered gruffly. “I know not why I am in such a foul humor. I have not treated Jonet so since I was a child. I pray you, forgive me.”
    “’Tis not my forgiveness you require, mi geneth. Here, drink your broth.”
    He held the mug and she sipped from it, watching his face over the rim, wishing he would smile. No doubt, she assured herself, that wish was also born of her illness, for there could be no other good reason for it.
    There was little conversation between them after that, but the silences were comfortable, and she felt no need to break them. Nor did Sir Nicholas seem inclined to do so. When she had finished her bread and broth, he helped her lie back again, then picked up his lute and began idly to pluck the strings.
    Jonet’s return twenty minutes later was heralded by the sound of her voice. That she was in a militant mood was made clear to Alys, if not to Sir Nicholas, by her complete lapse into the broad Yorkshire speech of her youth.
    “Tha’ hast got above thysel’, tha’ great club-fisted gowk! There be no call for thee ta traipse after me like a kitchen cat prayerful o’ scraps. By the look o’ thee, tha’ art well-enow fed no ta go beggin’ fer sich, nor fer other ’n far grander favors!”
    “True, my little prickling, but I would see you safe inside,” the big man said cheerfully as the flap was drawn back.
    “Safe!” Jonet came through the opening with her hands on her hips, turning as she entered to snap up at him, “Sithee, tha’ great shuttle-brained maggotpate, I’ll be the safer for thy space than for thy presence, as I’ll thank thee t’ remember!”
    “Is Hugh annoying you, mistress?” Sir Nicholas inquired.
    “Aye,” snapped Jonet. Then, seeing the frown on Sir Nicholas’s face, she recollected herself and added quickly, “Not to say annoying, sir. ’Tis only that he will follow after me wherever I go and does prate the grandest absurdities to me. Why, not ten seconds past, he told me I reminded him of a sea beet! Now then, sir, I ask—”
    Sir Nicholas chuckled. “A sea beet, Hugh?”
    Big Hugh had bent to follow Jonet into the tent, and when he straightened again, Alys was amazed anew at how he dwarfed all around him. “Aye, Nick,” he said in his deep bass voice. “Is her dress not the same soft lavender as that wee flower? Ah, but the sea beet is a sweet thing, and useful. I disremembered that when first I compared our Mistress Andras here to one.”
    Sir Nicholas choked back a laugh, and Jonet, more indignant than ever, said sharply, “The name is Hawkins, addlepate.”
    Alys, seeing that Sir Nicholas was still struggling to contain his laughter, demanded, “Why does he call her Andras?”
    He grinned. “Andras is a goddess—in sooth, a fury—to whom the ancient Welsh