At His Command-Historical Romance Version by Ruth Kaufman Page B

covered several walls.
    The praying continued as Amice peered at the high table, trying to determine which man was King Henry, who she knew to be in his early thirties. A hint of excitement prickled. She was going to meet the king and queen of England.
    In front of the tallest chair stood a man dressed almost completely in black. Instead of tunics worn by most of the noblemen, Henry wore a long gown with a rolled hood, much like those common men wore in the towns they’d passed on the way to London. The bright gold cross dangling from his Lancastrian chain of “SS” links called attention to the solemnity of his clothing. His small crown had a border of tiny crosses instead of jewels.
    To his right stood a beautiful woman with large eyes and a rounded face in a rich, dark blue velvet gown, whom she assumed to be Queen Margaret. Her hair, reputed to be blond, was hidden beneath her headdress with an oval padded roll on top. To Henry’s left was the only empty seat she could see. Next to that she was relieved to see Nicholas.
    Immediately her tight shoulders relaxed. Her breath came easier. She’d never seen him so richly dressed, in black velvet with silver thread at the collar. A sense of contentment washed through her, cleansing as a spring rain. She forced her gaze from Nicholas to seek out the page. How had he disappeared so quickly? There he was, almost at the high table.
    The crowd sat, leaving her one of the few still standing except for servers carrying heaped platters hither and yon. Sensing many eyes upon her, she drew herself up regally and continued on, weaving gracefully around the tables. She knew she looked her best. The din quieted as Amice curtseyed to the king and queen. The sibilance of whispers rose above her pounding heart as the king raised her to her feet.
    “Welcome,” Henry said, his voice nasal and thin. He looked down his nose at her with what seemed to be great disdain. He opened his mouth as if to say something else but turned to address the other guests instead. “We welcome Lady Amice Winfield.”
    The whispers flourished with renewed vigor.
    “Come, sup with Us so we can get acquainted,” Henry said, indicating the vacant chair. With that, he turned to his food, as if already uninterested in the new arrival.
    Amice’s stomach was too squeezed to think of eating. She couldn’t stand the suspense another minute. Who was she to wed? When? As she drew breath to speak, Nicholas turned to her with a bright, clearly forced smile. So his court persona was yet another facet of him. Would she ever again see the Nicholas she had come to know, care for and already missed?
    “Whatever we discuss, keep smiling…as though we spoke of the venison or some such thing,” he said.
    “Where is he?” Amice demanded with an equally forced smile.
    “He’s expected very soon.” Nicholas took a bite of roasted eel in red wine.
    “Who did the king choose?” She picked up her small, chased silver eating knife, but the aroma of the sauce made her queasy.
    “I don’t know,” he answered. “I tried to find out, but Henry wouldn’t reveal his name.”
    The servitor brought more wine.
    “When is someone going to tell me something?” she asked angrily. “This waiting, the not knowing, is worse than what will be. You can’t make plans without facts.” Recovering with a stiff smile, she changed the subject. “I’m glad to see you, a familiar, friendly face. But why are we seated here? And where is my cousin Cromwell?”
    Nicholas leaned close, whispering, “No matter what, smile.”
    Her eyes widened, but she did as he bid. Many had stopped eating and appeared to be avidly studying the events at the high table. Amice hoped their expressions were bland enough to mask the true nature of their conversation.
    “The question is, ‘When is your wedding?’” he said.
    He looked so handsome, with candlelight brightening his eyes. She needed his comfort, but how? He couldn’t even take her hand or