by Anne Carsley
Many in the crowd started for the nearest street. Others began to slap their clothes as if to reassure themselves that they still had their belongings. Some bunched nervously together and looked about with caution. Sir Guy took this opportunity to urge his men forward into a wider avenue that led away from the grisly scene of the burning.
Julian turned back almost involuntarily and caught the eye of the tall man who now stood easily, head thrown back, teeth flashing as he laughed at what might have been a private joke. His profile was etched clear and sharp in the torch flames; so might one of the old sardonic gods of Greece have looked. The thought ran in her mind, their glances locked, and her heart began to hammer as he sketched a half-mocking bow. Her lips parted, and she smiled gaily, freely, as one hand lifted in salute. Then they swept around the corner and rode into the darkness.
The bold face of the stranger was still with Julian as she dismounted an hour and more later in a dimly lit courtyard at the back of a huge sprawling building. Guards in dark clothes rushed forward to confer with Sir Guy, who spoke briefly with them before turning to Julian. She saw the frown on his face and the worry in his brown eyes before he assumed the proper impersonal tone.
“Madam, you will follow these men at once. It is commanded.”
She gasped in surprise. Was she to be thus hurried to her fate without food or rest and with the stains of travel still upon her? It was not to be borne. “Where do I go? I asked for an explanation. I am still a free citizen of this country.” She stood in the drizzle, head high, chestnut hair shining. It was a relief to speak boldly, and she was intoxicated by it. “Answer me, sirs. I was summoned to the queen’s presence. Am I thus expected to be led to prison?” She waved disdainfully at their surroundings.
“This is Whitehall Palace, Lady Redenter, and these men will lead you directly to Queen Mary’s own chambers. You were expected yesterday.” The speaker was a short, burly man who stood next to Sir Guy. His air of command was evident, his tone one of barely suppressed anger.
Julian felt the world whirl around her. It had been necessary for her pride and the new courage that the exchange with the handsome stranger had given her that she question those commands that had disrupted her life. She had been certain that she was to be carried away to a dark prison and left there to languish. Her voice did not tremble; she was proud of that as she said, “I obey gladly.”
They stared at her, and Sir Guy gave her the flicker of a smile before he bent to listen to the angry mutters of his companion. Julian knew that he wished her well and was sustained as she followed the two guards along the endless corridors, out into a small garden, along a hedged walk, and up to a small door that was opened as they approached. She walked hesitantly into a bare entrance where another guard pointed to a curtained area.
“Enter. You are awaited.” The harsh voice of the man seemed to thrust her past the purple and black velvet hangings. She heard him resume his place as she entered.
The room was small, lit by one pale candle that burned steadily in the stillness. A fire glimmered in one corner, and the walls were muffled in darkness. It seemed incredible that the woman who sat at the simple desk in the corner could see to write, and yet she drove the pen swiftly across the paper in front of her, oblivious to the girl who stood at her back.
Julian hesitated, then cleared her throat sharply. She was cold and wet and frightened. If she was to be conducted to her fate, let it be swiftly done. In the space before the woman turned, Julian saw that she was small and slender, her back erect under the enveloping gown that was banded with rich fur. Rings gleamed on her fingers, as did pearls on her hood. Shadows caught the set of the determined jaw, and then Julian knew what she should have known from the first.
From her knees she whispered, “Forgive me. Madam the Queen. I am your most obedient servant.” It was the litany of safety. Her blood chilled as she thought of the demand she had been about to give the person she considered to be the waiting woman of the queen. Had not Elspeth ever said that her tongue was too sharp and ready for her own safety?
The low deep voice spoke flatly, “Say you so? What if I say that you lie, Julian Redenter? That you lie as others have done to their great sorrow. Look at me, girl!”
Julian obeyed. The queen was short but held herself erectly. Her face was thin, the chin stubborn, the lips folded over themselves. The sandy, graying hair was partially visible, but her brows faded into the softly wrinkled forehead. Flesh drooped over the lids, yet her eyes, dark and penetrating, held Julian. She could not look away from that gaze that seemed to know and accuse and demand.
“Be careful how you speak lest your tongue betray you.” Something curled under the harshness and waited to break out.
Julian shivered inwardly, for that same note had been in her mother’s voice there toward the last, pain and anger held inward with no bearable release except in nightmares. But this woman was the queen of England. The silence lengthened and drew out as their eyes held. Then Julian bent her head and prayed for sincerity.
“Your Majesty was ever the loyal servant of your royal father and brother, yet your loyalty was doubted in their reigns and still proved true. Must not the quality of compassion ever be exemplified in the sovereign? I appeal to your justice.”
“You have a smooth tongue, girl. I despise such.” The queen swung round and sank back into her chair. She glanced at some documents spread out on the table before her, then up at Julian. “Sit on yonder stool near the fire.”
Her tone did not alter, but something told Julian that she was no longer in as great a peril as she had been at the end of her speech. What did one say to such a woman? The very act of breathing might be dangerous!
The queen tapped the first paper with one finger, and the shimmering jewels caught the fire of the candle so that they flamed anew. “Ah, yes, treason is everywhere. Your father, Lionel Redenter, fought against mine in the Pilgrimage of Grace in 1536. He had goodly holdings in the North Country, but they were stripped from him while he yet lived and hid in the crags of that fastness. He was caught and slain when he visited your mother in the next year. He died before her eyes. You were the child of that last coupling, I believe.” She might have been reciting a list to a waiting tirewoman.
“Aye, Your Majesty.” Julian remembered how her mother’s stories had made Lionel come alive for her in the days before Lady Gwendolyn’s illness descended completely and life became one fierce struggle.
Her own struggle had just begun.
CHAPTER TWO
The queen continued to speak in her expressionless tone. “Yet my father. King Henry, was merciful, for he gave the widow a tiny pension and allowed her to live in the old manor close to the Welsh border, Redeswan. Commissioners were sent regularly to investigate the household. Your father, I note, was the last heir of his line; his own father fought for the Plantagenets at Bosworth Field. Yours has been a warring house.”
Julian kept her head respectfully bent, but she was remembering those days of watching and waiting, the endless questions and speculations. All had to swear an oath declaring King Henry to be supreme head of the Church and their loyalty was constantly tested. Even the child she had been was not immune from demands. Later King Edward’s men had asked theological questions and more protestations of loyalty. She shuddered, remembering how they had been harried.
The queen’s voice caught her up. “Aye, you remember as I do. I, too, was besieged and I a princess of the blood royal. How could I say that my sainted mother had not been true wife to my father? How could I deny the Lord Pope and destroy my soul?” Her eyes glittered with past agony, and one hand went up to wipe away the tears. “And yet I feared for my life and so I signed that paper!”
Julian knew that it was dangerous to speak unless bidden, but she could not restrain herself. “Yet you were spared to take the crown, madam.” Just so had she introduced another train of thought to her mother when the malady was upon her.
Queen Mary stared down at her with
that penetrating look as one side of her mouth twisted downward. “You are bold, Julian Redenter. Are you crafty? Would you plot against your queen? They do, you know.”
Was she truly mad? Julian shivered even as she said, “Forgive my presumption, Your Majesty, but who has better cause than I to be loyal? My father died in the company of those who held you to be trueborn daughter in the authority of the Church. My mother served yours in her imprisonment and did arrange to wed my father under the good graces of that sainted lady. My family was closely watched in the years before your accession and was often rated by the commissioners of the king. Only with the coming of Your Majesty to the throne did we begin to breathe more freely. My family has ever served the throne, and I am no exception. I am the servant of Madam the Queen now and forever.” She lifted herself from the stool and knelt at the queen’s feet. What would be the consequences of her boldness? There had been nothing else to do; she had seen too clearly the beginnings of hysteria.
Queen Mary’s low voice rang on a different note. “Aye, child, you have reaped the bitterness, I know right well.”
Julian was very still as footsteps rang on the floor, and her whole body tensed with expectation and a rush of warmth for this beleaguered woman. Then a new voice spoke over her bent head in soft, sibilant tones that held a slight amusement.
“Rise, Lady Redenter. You are believed true to us. In such times it is necessary to test everyone. Welcome to our court.”
Julian rose and looked at the man who stood beside the queen. One slender hand was on her arm as if to restrain her from any sudden movement. He was slight in build, but his manner was one of great authority. His hair and beard were golden, his pale eyes steady and cold as the sea. He wore black velvet slashed with gold and one great ruby winked on his thumb. Julian knew him, as who in England did not? He was Philip of Spain, ruler of many lands, powerful beyond the telling, titular king of England and young husband to the rapidly aging queen.
“Majesty.” Julian breathed the word as if in awe, but the cynical side of her nature warned her to be doubly cautious now. She shook with tiredness and hoped that both took it for fear before greatness.
Queen Mary said, “I sent for your mother when I came to the throne, but she pleaded indisposition, though nothing serious. I sent gifts in token of my gratitude for her service to my mother. Then, occupied with matters of state, I forgot my duty. The commissioners who checked reported no disloyalty, and the matter faded. Now that my husband has returned from abroad, I hope to conceive again. England must have an heir, and I will have only those loyal ones around me. You were tested by the manner of the summons and by our treatment of you here this night.” Her voice was soft and gentle now, the gruffness muted.
“As others shall be. It is my idea.” Philip of Spain touched his chin as his eyes glittered at Julian. “You will join the ladies-in-waiting here, and monies shall be dispensed to your household at Redeswan. Does that please you, madam?”
Deep emotion rang in his voice, and it was not solicitude for his wife. Julian sank down again in a curtsy and heard herself murmuring her gratitude in meaningless phrases that went on and on. She thought of herself as she must look, wet and bedraggled, hair tumbling down her back, and called it foolish to think that she might have stirred the interest of the king, who was noted for his not always discreet admiration of the ladies. Doubtless I have read too many French romances, she thought as she rose again from her curtsy to see that Philip had retreated as silently as he had come and the queen had turned to ring a little bell at her elbow.
The woman who entered in response to it was tall and blond. She wore spangled purple velvet, and despite the shadows under her dark eyes, her manner was self-possessed and cool. She surveyed Julian with a questioning glance even as she knelt to the queen.
“This is Lady Isabella Acton. Her husband was slain fighting for me in Wyatt’s rebellion several years ago. Her dear loyalty illumes my days. She will guide you. See that you are worthy of the opportunity given you.” The queen waved them out with an exhausted gesture.
In the passageway outside, Isabella turned to Julian. “You will share my rooms for now. Some of my gowns will fit you until we can get you others. I vow, you are not fit to be seen as you are.”
Julian had not held her tongue before the queen and saw no reason why she should hold it before this woman. “It is far from London to the Welsh border, lady, and the roads are not of the best. Your gracious hospitality is appreciated. I would not willingly discommode you.”
The brilliant eyes flashed. “Be warned, country girl. This court is a dangerous place, and you had best conduct yourself accordingly. Now come.”
“I am grateful for your warning,” Julian answered, her head erect with pride.
The next few days were spent in the preparation of gowns, instruction in court dances and proper topics of conversation, lessons on the lute and virginals, some coaching of her soft voice in the songs the queen preferred, and a pointed interview as to her religious views. Isabella was present at all of these, both distant and correct; the flash of fire she had shown earlier did not come again. Julian followed her example, for she knew the warning had not been lightly given. Thus she gave the circumspect answers to the priest and fought to hide her resentment at his questions.
One morning Julian was sent to walk four of the queen’s spaniels in the garden by the river. It was a misty, chilly day, and the branches of the trees overhead, newly leafed out, rattled in the wind. The opposite bank of the Thames was shrouded in fog, and the water ran dark below. The path where she walked was muddy and her clogs heavy; already the dark brown of her gown was stained and damp. The golden dogs foamed around her feet and yapped at each other in their delight to be free. All the freshness of spring was in the air as Julian felt her spirits rise to greet it.
A bird screeched suddenly and rose from a bush directly in front of her. She jumped and dropped the leashes. The spaniels separated and ran toward the copse which bordered on the bank, yapping as they went. Her foot caught in one of the roots, and she tumbled sideways onto some rocks that formed part of a grotto. Her hair fell loose over her shoulders and blew in the gusting breeze. Julian began to laugh as she tried to rise and caught her foot in the hem of the gown; it was all too much at once.
“These beasts nearly tripped me. What are you doing with them if you cannot control them?” The annoyed voice spoke just behind her. “Here, I will help you up unless you prefer to sit there.”
“It is not the most comfortable seat in the garden, I assure you,” Julian said tartly. She took the long-fingered brown hand that was stretched down to her and untangled her hem quickly as she rose. The two little dogs barked eagerly for attention. “Thank you, I . . .” Her voice trailed away as she looked into the face of the man who had averted trouble with the crowd the night of her entry into London.
He was very tall, in his early thirties, with crisply curling black hair above a high forehead. His brows were dark slashes above gray-green eyes, and his mouth was sharply modeled with an arrogant set to it. She saw again the chiseled profile, the ears set close to his head, the lean lines of his long body that the stark black of his doublet and hose showed to advantage. His shoulders were wide and supported the weight of a gray cloak almost the same shade as the river mist. A silver chain hung around his neck and emeralds glittered on one hand.
Now he stared at her in a puzzled fashion, his hand still on hers. A flicker of movement caught her eye just then, and the other dogs rushed toward them, barking as they came. She looked beyond them and saw Isabella Acton making her cautious way along one of the lower paths in the same general direction from which the man had come. His glance followed hers and grew cold. Had they kept a tryst in the drizzle? No matter, Julian thought. What concern could it be of hers?
He released her fingers and said, “Of course—I saw you in the streets the other night. That is why you seem familiar. You are one of the servants in the palace, I see. I am glad that thi
ngs have turned out well for you and that you were not being led away to prison.” He smiled and the dark face, brown from the sun, was transformed into brilliance. He had a tiny cleft beside his mouth that lent warmth to his chill exterior.
Julian felt that warmth touch and envelop her. Her heart began to hammer, and she felt herself tremble as fire mounted in her cheeks. She tried to take her eyes from his and could not; the world seemed to fade away so that only the two remained. Neither moved, but she saw the pulse throbbing in his neck and the faintest touch of perspiration appear on his brow.
She heard herself say, “Sir, I do thank you for your concern. It was most gentlemanly of you.”
He gave a short laugh that held no mirth, then reached out and pulled her to him, crushing the whole length of her body to him so that she felt the pounding of his heart and the rising of his manhood through her full skirts.
“Let me go!” She struggled against the firm hands, suddenly afraid of what had been set in motion.
“In due time.” The words were almost whispered as he set his mouth to hers so fiercely that his teeth ground into her lips. One strong hand held her head still, and the other secured her body against his. His tongue forced itself into her mouth, and he bent her backward as she yielded to his power.
He overwhelmed her, burned her, set the sweet juices running hotly in her flesh. She felt herself beginning to dissolve and meld with him. She wanted to be closer to him, to feel those long fingers on her naked warmth. Their tongues drew heat and wound together. Her breasts began to ache as she lost all will except his.
Then he set her back from him, and they looked full at each other. His face was cold now, but Julian’s breath came, in gasps, and she could feel her lips ache from the force of his kiss. The little dogs whimpered at their feet, and the distant call of a boatman on the river mingled with the low roll of thunder in the distance.
