by Anne Carsley
“You have set a spell, mistress. Did you mean it so?” The words were light, intimate as a finger touch. “Might you be . . . kind ... at another time?” The look in his eyes told her what he meant most clearly.
Anger flickered through Julian. Did he think her a casual tumble simply because she had been caught up in an unknown emotion? Would it be different if he knew her to be under the protection of the queen? The simple precepts of her proud house spoke for her as she lifted her chin and looked him squarely in the face. Desire roiled in her, the first she had ever known. She no longer wondered at the romances and what they could inspire.
“You take me lightly, sir. I was not taught so nor would I practice it now.” She drew back slightly and shook out her skirts.
Little points came into his darkening eyes, and his mouth quirked upward. “Do you know who I am?” There was almost an air of sadness about him as he watched her. “You are not afraid of me?”
“You are doubtless a great lord. Should I fear you?” She tipped her face up toward his.
He touched her chin gently. “Better for you that you should, little one. I will leave you to your Ned or Thomas as is meet.”
Just then a shrill whistle sounded from the bank, and they saw a small barge approaching. A man stood in the back of it, looking up toward the garden where they stood. The dark man beside Julian gave an answering call which might have been a bird at twilight. He walked a few steps away, then turned once more and cupped her face in his warm fingers.
She felt her pulses throb as her arms lifted to his shoulders. His lips were soft and cherishing now, tender as rose petals in the spring sun. Passion was leashed down so that gentleness might flower. The force of her own response shook her as she tried to hold back so that he might not see the longing written upon her face.
He moved back, and once again that wry, self-deprecating smile crossed his mouth. His bow was as to a great lady rather than the servant wench she knew he thought her to be. She curtsied gravely before him, aquamarine eyes brilliant with the beginning of strange tears that she did not understand. They looked at each other for another moment before he turned and stalked away into the mist and drizzle down toward the waiting barge.
Julian felt a mixture of joy and sadness. How she wished that she had someone to confide in or at least to tell her who he was! A man so handsome must surely be wed, she thought, or certainly troth-plighted. She gathered the leashes and started up the muddy path, murmuring endearments to the little dogs which had, after all, brought him to her. She could not resist a swift look at the river, but the barge had vanished. There was a wildness, a hunger in her blood that had responded to the same in him; her instincts told her that there was that between them which must come again. “Let me see him again! Bring him back.” She whispered the words to the Virgin, to Isis, to Aphrodite, then smiled at her fancies.
The deep earth smells mingled with those of water and rain. The thunder rattled overhead, the wind struck icily at her, but Julian did not hear or feel. She was thinking of the gray days at Redeswan and their struggles for bare existence when Elspeth would remark, “Ah, Lady Julian, if you but had a good manageable husband!”
Julian had tossed her head boldly. “If ever I wed, it will be for true love. I will guide my own fate.” Then they laughed together at such outlandish notions, but Julian had always known that she spoke the truth.
Now she smiled in memory. Life and excitement were opening up before her, and love wore a face whose name she did not know.
CHAPTER THREE
The great palace of Whitehall gleamed with a thousand candles. The lavishly decorated walls and ceilings glowed with color, not only with paintings and carvings, but with gold and silver and priceless jewels. Tapestries of exquisite silks also adorned the walls, moving in the little winds that were always present so that the figures and animals depicted on them seemed almost lifelike. Sweet scents flooded up, and the Tudor rose, that mingling of red rose and white, was shown everywhere in carvings and embroidery. The hart of the English stood with the eagle of the Hapsburgs, red and yellow twined with black and white in the united symbols of the sovereigns on the banners that fluttered everywhere. Music and talk rang out, servants scurried back and forth, the assembled court and various guests along with Queen Mary and King Philip waited for the first lavish revel of his return to begin.
Julian waited with the others who were to take part in this section of the revel. The anteroom was impossibly small, but they took no notice of each other as they awaited the signal to appear. The watchers had banquetted heartily, but this troupe had barely touched bread, cheese, and watered wine. Now they stood numbly, muttering lines and rehearsing gestures, or gazing earnestly into space.
Julian had a very small part, but she had been coached in it over and over by the frantic Master of the Revels, who could not be satisfied with any of the performances, either of the great or the lesser mortals. She was terrified, but her heart thrilled to the sounds of the trumpets, the salutations to the rulers, the roars of those gathered, and to the deep voice of Mary as she praised each portion of the pageant. Julian had seen the queen several times since the night of her arrival; she had been distant and gracious with no sign of the emotion of that first encounter. Now the girl let her thoughts drift. What if the queen were delighted by them this night? From such moments court fortunes were made; a pleased ruler would grant much and who more so than a queen besotted? A foolish dream perhaps, but it helped to quell the fright. She would ask for Redeswan to be truly hers.
The music from the hall died, and the applause began. In a few minutes lackeys would begin to roll the huge painted machines that constituted the undersea kingdom of their own masque into place. The curtain would roll down, and their enchantment would begin. The music of England and Spain wound together over the patter of the court fool while the jugglers and tumblers entertained the throng in this pause. Julian’s throat grew tight; she would not be able to speak or move. Her legs were frozen and trembling.
The torches flickered and dimmed. They would be relit in a matter of minutes, but this was their signal. “Move! Move!” The Master of the Revels gave a hiss of pure anguish. Instantly they began to move and obey without thinking as they had done in the last few days. Julian followed the swaying skirts of the girl in front of her and did not pause to wonder that her body responded.
Quick hands lifted her to the “rock” that she would occupy, and others spread her gown so that she could rise swiftly when the time came. Once settled, she twisted her suddenly damp fingers, then put them down on the wool-covered structure that represented the dwelling of the sea creature. She must not spot her pale skirts. She was almost at the top of the painted scene and could look through the carved waves. The thrones and jeweled figures, the rapt courtiers, the whole gay scene, faded before the sight of the dark man she had met again only a fortnight ago. Her eyes saw only his tall silver-clad figure standing to the left of the king as he whispered in his ear.
The massed candles flamed again into brilliance, the music rose to a crescendo, and the curtain was moved away. The company gave a collective sigh as the high pure voices of the minstrels rose in florid description of the sea kingdom. Light blazed in Julian’s face as she lifted her arms and swayed with the others in the movements she had learned. Awareness of him coursed in her blood and heightened her excitement. Now she would meet him on his own ground as an equal. Now he would see her as fair woman, not as a serving wench with whom to dally.
The sea beat upon the rocks, their kingdom rose to light and air, the eagle came to be made thrice welcome by water maidens who, in turn, were welcomed by his feathered followers as they sang of the mountains and plains of their own land. Then the beast rose in the distance, somber and evil. The music lowered to a single ominous note. The dancer-soldiers of both kingdoms marched forward to do battle and bring justice.
The heavy body sagged and fell. A wild song of jubilation began as those victorious mingled their banne
rs, and the torches were lifted high. Then the four sea princesses rose proudly to speak as one, the eagle and his followers joining in. “So, gentles all, our lands united do choose the right and conquer evil as is our bounden duty.” Then there was silence as the six girls poised at the top of the scene, goddesses all, spoke clearly, each in her turn and rising as she did so, “Deus veult,” that cry of the crusaders of old.
Julian heard her own voice, low and carrying, filled with the fervency of the moment. She knew that all eyes watched, including those of the dark man, and was glad that the iridescent blue-green gown she wore was the very color of her eyes and gave a glow to her pale skin. The skirt was made in the manner of a bell and stood out to emphasize her small waist. The sleeves were long and puffed up over lacings of dark blue which came to white lace at her fingertips. The wide collar stood away to show the beginnings of her bosom. Her chestnut hair was wound with ropes of tiny pearls and fell to her hips. She had known herself lovelier than she had ever been when the maids helped her dress, and now the warming flush lifted to her cheeks. In moments, now, he would seek her out.
The players sank low before the king and queen while the last notes of the music died away and they waited for the accolade. The accented English held only the faintest hint of a lisp as the king said, “We are pleased, well pleased. You will come forward before us, one by one, and receive our thanks.”
Julian heard the gasps. This was honor, indeed. She lifted her eyes to see that both rulers were smiling, but the dark man now stood back from the dais and gazed off into the distance with an expression of boredom. Her heart slammed in her chest, and she whispered softly, “Let him find me fair.” A vision of the hawthorn in bloom rose up in her mind just then, and she remembered Elspeth, who had given so generously of her charm. Then all faded as the players went to receive the accolade.
When her turn came she was conscious only of eyes seeming to bore into her, not only those of the courtiers but the seeking ones of Philip, the watchful ones of the queen, who was suddenly stiff in her golden chair.
“Ah, Lady Redenter. Most charming. An enchanting pageant.” The king’s voice coiled around her and held for a second.
Julian kept her head bent as the gruff voice of the queen echoed his final words. Then the Master of the Revels touched her arm, and she smiled blankly into his bearded face as she moved away to make room for the next player. Her knees shook from nerves and the depth of her curtsy, but she was able to tell that the dark man was no longer at the dais. Annoyed with herself, she walked over to one wall and began to study the painting of a forest that hung there. Dimly she heard the music begin for dancing.
“Welcome to court, Lady Redenter.” His voice was deep and warm, the syllables slightly clipped, the sound of the sea in them.
Julian swung round, the flush rising in her face. The gray and silver that he wore accented the browned skin and black hair; the brilliant eyes were a deeper gray and expressionless. He wore no jewels except the silver chain. His own person was adornment enough, she thought.
“You have the advantage of me, sir.” Her pulses were hammering wildly and the hall was suddenly very hot. Devil take the man that he could affect her so! She recalled Lady Gwendolyn’s passionate memories of her husband, thoughts recollected in sickness and not meant for a girl’s ears, which had stamped themselves on her whole life. Love was partial enslavement just as the romances said.
“I am Charles Jonathan Varland. Will you dance with me?”
Wordlessly she took the arm he held out, and they paced into the open area where others moved in the stately tread of the pavane. Their fingers touched, melted together as the flames rose between them. Charles Varland’s face was impassive, but awareness emanated from him. They drifted in the patterns of the dance, but they might have been alone for all the notice they took of their surroundings. His eyes went over her, and it was as intimate as the caress they had shared in the garden.
“Did you find the masquerade amusing, my lady? Are there other parts you plan to play?” The tone was silken, polite. “I vow, you quite fooled me with your talents.”
Julian said, “I did not notice that you offered your name, Lord Varland. I assume that is your correct title?”
“It is. Am I to assume that you did not know me?” He bore heavily down on the same word she had used.
“How could I? Isabella did not say . ..” She stopped at the angry look on his face.
“Isabella Acton? Have you been prattling to her of me?” He leaned closer to her as the rhythm of the dance slowed and faded. “Hold your tongue, madam, in matters that do not concern you!”
Julian was thankful for the anger that blazed through her; it was more understandable than the longing for his touch. “I will say that you are far too certain of yourself, my lord. Pray let me leave you to commune with that self!” She turned and walked away from him so rapidly that she almost collided with a young man talking to a dark-haired girl several feet away. Their surprised laughter rose as she went on.
She only wanted to be away from the disturbing emotions that Lord Varland aroused, yet she did not forget that moments before only he had existed for her. A great emptiness permeated Julian then; never had she felt so alone or deserted. Those of her household at Redeswan, few though they were, had shared fear, poverty, and pleasure together. Elspeth had been confidante and friend more than servant. Life had been simple then. Still, she would not change.
“Julian.” It was Isabella, first faint lines furrowing her white brow, the smile unreal on her face, who put one slender hand under the girl’s elbow. To the casual observer it might have been a friendly gesture, but the grip was so strong that Julian would have had to wrench herself free. The informal address was strange in this formal court. “I must speak with you. Walk with me.”
They moved to the fringes of the hall with just a few steps, then Isabella said, “I say this as one who wishes you well. Lord Varland is not to be trifled with; leave him alone. Your entire future could be placed in jeopardy.”
Julian believed her to be jealous and could not resist such a priceless opportunity to learn something of the dark lord. “I did but dance with him in courtesy, Lady Acton, as with any court gentleman. What have I done amiss?”
The dark eyes glittered at her, but the outward demeanor was unruffled. “You are a maiden and ward of the queen, who will find you a good husband, for she is kindness itself in such matters. You will not understand grave matters of the court, of course, but Varland was high in the favor of Protestant King Edward and went on a mission for King Henry, his father. He wed in Italy, and the girl died in strange circumstances. Tales circulated and were silenced. He met King Philip in the days before he became our queen’s husband and thus is in favor now. He is said to be betrothed to a great heiress of the Rothsoon family, but she has never been to court. His reputation is one of despoiler of women and worse. It will not go well that you accepted his attention this night.”
Julian remembered the tenderness of the garden, the way he had bidden her go to her rustic love and had almost warned her against himself. Was that the way of a lecher, a man of no beliefs save that of lust? But she must not anger this woman, the powerful friend of the queen.
She said innocently, “Is he a pariah, then? Would such a lady as yourself be seen in his company?”
Isabella’s grip had relaxed, but now it tightened again. “You must guard your reputation. It and the queen’s favor are all you have in this world and all you can bring to a husband. Be polite but no more, even as I am.”
Julian almost told her that she had seen her in the garden, certainly coming from seeing Lord Varland, but caution held her tongue. “I have often thought, Lady Acton, that I would wish to remain unwed rather than give my life and self over into the keeping of a man for whom I did not care.” This was no more than truth, but it deflected Isabella’s suspicions.
She laughed avidly. “So did I once think. It is the way of maidens. You will heed my words
?”
“Naturally, my lady.”
They walked on toward a little anteroom where several girls were playing on the virginals while another strummed a lute. A servant moved among the several gentlemen with goblets of wine. He came up to Julian and she took one, for she was suddenly very thirsty. The heady concoction lifted her spirits, and she was able to smile at Isabella easily. The blond woman watched her for a moment and seemed satisfied.
“I must attend briefly on the queen, then I will return for you. I think it likely that you will soon be in full attendance on her if you comport yourself properly.” The tiny lash was in the words again.
Julian said nothing and continued to smile. Isabella rustled away without a backward glance. It was a relief to see her go, and now Julian could sink down on a stool and listen to the music that drifted around her. Bits of conversation eddied also, much of it meaningless, more background than clarity: “. . . an eye on the girl, best be careful,” “not likely for war . . .” “whose wife?” Laughter, covert glances at Julian, and then whispering. She wondered idly what they were talking about. Would she ever belong here or stand laughing with friends?
One of the girls was singing now. It was a tender ballad of love and spring in the greenwood, a fair maiden who sought her knight and found him after many trials and vicissitudes. The words made Julian think of her own proud declaration and the very real possibility that the queen would choose a husband for her who would not be to her liking. Few women wed whom they chose and then only in a second marriage. They sang of love, that was well enough, but reality dominated marriage.
She shook off the bitter thoughts and listened to the melody that was just beginning. It was one familiar to the courtiers; they paused in their conversations to listen, and one of them joined his voice with that of the young darkhaired girl who was singing. Julian took another sip of wine and felt it mingle with tiredness and excitement as the words of passion and love unrequited rang in her mind and rose softly to her lips: “Alas, my love, you do me wrong to treat me so discourteously. . . .”
