by Anne Carsley
The others stood back to give them room at first, but as the music skirled more wildly, they joined in so that the entire courtyard was a mass of light and color. Julian was moved along so rapidly that she was hard put to keep her balance, and her partner put supple fingers on her waist. The touch was knowing and sure; even as she recoiled from it she knew that she could not escape. The light eyes of the king of Spain glittered into hers.
She could not have spoken even if the noise had permitted it; her tongue was frozen in her mouth. His lips under the jutting mask were curved in a set smile of amusement, but his eyes waited for her reaction. Julian forced her own lips into a polite court smile as she inclined her head in a gesture of obeisance. If the queen wanted her bound by honorable marriage, might not King Philip use that facade to pursue her all the more? Unwed girls were closely guarded; wives were another thing entirely, though all knew that the queen was naive in such matters.
The dance required swift running steps which slowed and then quickened as the gentleman whirled his partner into one finale as the music drummed to a stop. Julian’s feet and body kept perfect time. If she showed fear she would demean herself; this catlike man played with her as she had seen the barn cats deal with tiny mice. Her palms were damp and cool, but the night was warm. Her face felt as if it would crack with the smile that did not alter. Around them the courtiers spun and laughed, apparently oblivious to anything but the pleasure of the dance, yet she knew that tongues would wag later, and that this latest venture of the king’s would be reported to the exhausted woman who even now lay in her room. Pity touched Julian, and her eyes softened so that her face seemed to bloom.
“Madam.” Philip of Spain whirled her expertly, his eyes saying what his words did not as he swung her close, his mouth closing on hers in the ritual kiss that was in so many English dances. It should have been a light, glancing thing, a salute; instead it was a drawing, grasping hunger with a touch of mockery and laughter. Julian felt her mouth respond even as she went stiff.
“Madam,” he repeated as he bowed before her in the final movement of the dance, “you are the spring’s very self this night. I do not flatter myself that I have brought such brilliance to your face. Can it be that you already know the whereabouts of that one to whom you shall belong? That fortunate gentleman, but shall I say his name?”
She did not doubt that everyone knew who he was and that tongues were even now whispering their poison in the queen’s ear. He led her circumspectly around the courtyard in the full blaze of the torches and the pale light of the rising moon.
Julian knew she must not provoke him.
“Your Majesty is pleased to compliment me. I thank you.” She set her chin and let her eyes say what her mouth dared not.
“You English are so difficult, so hardy. In Spain these things are arranged with a flick of the hand.” He was only a hairbreadth from voicing his demand, and Julian knew it.
She must save herself as best she could. Her eyelids drooped as if in modesty. By all the beloved saints, what was this that she seemed to stir desire in all the wrong people? Another woman might have been flattered, but she was coming to know that Charles Varland had laid his brand upon her and no other would suffice in this life.
Her voice rose slightly as she asked, “And is Your Majesty long for these shores? How goes the progress of the wars abroad? It is ever so exciting, and you honor me so greatly this night. All those years in the country and I never thought to dance with a king!” She gave a little laugh and swung her skirts as they walked. Several people close by pretended to ignore them, but she heard the muted laughter and saw the sly looks. She let her giggle lift again.
Philip glanced coldly around them, and his shoulders grew stiff. His gaze shifted to her, and she felt the anger behind the eye slits. She had been right, she thought with relief. Proud Spain could not endure the slightest touch of ridicule, could not stoop to a foolish country maid with her head turned. They were standing too long. The musicians were moving uneasily, and some of the courtiers were removing the masks that had been so amusing. Someone laughed uneasily and a dog began to bark.
The king of Spain lifted one gloved hand in a quick gesture. Immediately the rollicking music began again. Under the cover of it he said with easy malice, “Checkmate, Lady Redenter.”
Since he was incognito in the manner of the court, she could not sweep the elaborate curtsy that she had been taught. The facade must be maintained. She answered, “May I bid you good evening, Your Majesty? I must pay your wife my respects.” She certainly had no intention of going to the queen, who would likely only excoriate her, but it would free her from his baneful presence.
“Sir.” The steady voice came from behind them, but she had heard no one approach.
“Ah, yes. You are both prompt and obedient. It is a virtue that must be encouraged in such times as these.” Philip of Spain took Julian’s elbow in his hard grasp and turned her to face the man directly in the light. “You may find her willful, but court beauties are often that if I remember my bachelor days. Lady Redenter, I present to you your betrothed, Lord George Attenwood, staunch supporter of our throne in the north country. Lord George, Lady Julian Redenter, one of the treasures of this court.”
Julian caught her breath and felt the world slip awry. It did not take Philip of Spain’s laughter to tell her how neatly she had been trapped. Truly, one did not refuse a king, even indirectly, with impunity. The queen believed all women should be wed, so she had consulted Philip, who had mentioned Lord Attenwood. Philip knew that many of the English nobility hated him, and he sought to ingratiate himself with them. That much was common gossip. But what did Julian Redenter have to do with affairs of state?
“My lord, Your Majesty.” Her voice did not falter as she bent in the proper respect to her future husband, the man who had been with the younger blond one that afternoon and whose voice had throbbed with passion for him. Then she lifted her eyes to the knowing ones of Philip of Spain.
CHAPTER TEN
George Attenwood had eyes the color of slate set in a weatherbeaten face that showed few marks of the fifty years she knew him to be. His body was well set and firm, his forehead high and intelligent. He looked Julian up and down, not missing the sun flush on nose and brow. His straight mouth thinned a trifle, and his long fingers twisted together in a convulsive gesture instantly stilled.
He said, “With your permission, Majesty, may I walk with my lady?” The possessive word was not lost on either Julian or Philip.
The Spaniard smiled. “With our blessings.” His glance flickered to Julian, and she saw the cruelty there. Then he pulled aside the mask, and they knelt as etiquette demanded. A tall man who had been hovering close by now came pushing his way through the courtiers who had moved nearer.
Attenwood took Julian’s arm, his hand squeezing so tightly that, short of jerking free and causing a scene, she could only follow his rapid pace into the shadow of the wall where the torchlight cast a red glow on them both. The pulse in her throat began to throb at the glitter in his eyes, but she held her head high. He said, “I will be brief, madam. I trust that you have not become enchanted with court life, because when we are very shortly wed, we go to my estates in the North Country, where you will remain. The women of my house are secluded as is proper. In the meantime, remember that you will bear a noble name.”
Julian said, “Is Your Lordship always so much to the point?” Antipathy clawed at her, but she forced her lips into a polite smile. “You overwhelm me, I vow.”
“I think it is better that we understand each other from the outset, madam. Their Majesties have approved this match, our names are old, and your family has borne sons in the past. I need an heir, you protection. You will hold yourself in readiness for my commands.”
Insufferable! Julian’s pride flamed out, and she cried, “I do not wish this marriage and have not given my consent! Do not treat me as if I were your brood mare! When I wed, if I ever do, it will be to a man, not a . .
.” She stopped in horror, both hands flying to her mouth.
Attenwood’s face twisted into jagged fragments, and the red-tipped torch burned in his eyes as one hand lifted, almost casually, to the side of her face as if to catch at an errant curl. The pressure of those fingers and the burning sensation of his touch made her flesh crawl. Anyone looking at them now would see only a lover bending eagerly over his lady who, properly, was withdrawing a little.
“You understood what you saw this afternoon.” His voice was perfectly level, conversational. “I knew I recognized you. My sight is very keen.”
Julian had read with horror old chronicles from the Redenter library filled with the tales of those who loved the same sex. She had few illusions about the life she would lead with Attenwood. What of the boy who had looked at her with hatred? Would he not hate his master’s wife? She could not marry this man!
“I understood, my lord. As you must understand now. Your life is your own; I will say nothing. But this marriage cannot be.”
“On the contrary.” Attenwood smiled in real amusement. “Nothing has changed. You stand there so boldly, a veritable Amazon or perhaps a guardian goddess, a picture straight from a tapestry, I warrant. Perhaps the getting of an heir will not be the task I dreaded. Prepare yourself to be Lady Attenwood, madam! And if you think to babble of my predilections, remember that your mother died raving. Mad women can easily be confined.” He swung around, bowed, and strode away.
Julian cursed her foolish lapse into anger. Something told her that Attenwood was yet more perverse than his liking for young men. The latent cruelty that sometimes emerged in Philip of Spain was a light thing compared to what she felt festering in Attenwood. To whom could she turn? The queen would not believe her, she knew that; Julian had known the very real innocence of this woman she served.
Where was Blanche? There was no sign of the other girl, and the feast was waxing yet more merry. She supposed she need fear nothing more right now from either Attenwood or Philip, who had departed in the wake of the messenger. Suddenly she was so exhausted that she did not care about any of them. Not even the thought of Charles Varland could stir her just now. Among all the rooms in this lodge there must be someplace where she might rest and yet be safe. She began to make her way inside, hoping that she could find the rooms where she had changed clothes what seemed a full century ago. Jane Dormer would be with the queen, thus there would be a modicum of privacy. Merciful stupor was already clouding her mind; she welcomed it, for the rending experiences of the day were being shut away, granting surcease from what must he faced later and endured not only on the morrow but all the days of her life.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Wake up! Wake up! What is the matter with you, girl?” The high voice penetrated the peaceful fog around Julian and pulled at her, the urgency of the cry communicating itself through layers of sleep. The hands on her shoulders were hard and demanding.
“What is it?” The words lay heavy on her tongue as she twisted around in the truckle bed and finally managed to sit up. The face above her was vaguely familiar, one of those she had seen around the queen in the first days at court.
“Get up! We leave for London immediately. The queen has been gone these several hours with those closest to her and the king. Messages have come and the council is meeting! Hurry!”
“What has happened?” Julian tried to regain her senses.
“Who knows? We but obey. Come as you are, there is no time.” She pulled at Julian again, and this time the girl rose quickly, heart slamming against her ribs.
She was no wiser when they reached Greenwich Palace hours later. Jane Dormer’s green gown was all in disarray from the journey by horse and barge. The other people with whom she had come, lesser ladies, one or two somber gentlemen, a gaggle of servants, none known to her, had whispered among themselves a little and then remained silent. She had made a comment or two and retreated, not into the contemplation of her own difficulties—which seemed too numerous for sanity—but into pleasure in the warmth of the day and the flowering countryside, the broad sweep of the Thames and the crowned sight of London. Just so had she had taken Redeswan to her heart when life seemed unbearable in the long days of her mother’s dying.
Once inside the lovely, ornate palace that had seen so many of the great happenings of this and previous reigns, people clustered together in little groups to talk and speculate. Julian wondered again where Blanche was and what her family would think. Tension balled high in her stomach as she found herself unable to do more than sip at the ale which was passed by glum servants. The whole gay, gossiping, intriguing court was paralyzed by this sudden shift. Julian thought of the way the people had eyed them sullenly from barge and high road, and she shivered. What did all this mean?
“My lords and ladies, hear me.” The chamberlain, clad all in Tudor green and white, rapped for attention as he stood, tall and spare, in the center of the winding staircase. The courtiers ceased their buzzing and eyed him raptly. “Her Majesty the Queen bids me convey to you that a message has been sent to the king of France advising him that a condition of war exists between our countries. She bids you pray for the success of our arms and those of imperial Spain.”
There was thunderstruck silence for a long moment Julian felt her blood thrill in excitement that the expected embroilment of England in the flaring wars of the Continent had come at last. Suddenly several young men near her cried out, “God and Queen Mary for the right! Glory to our arms!” The call rang out and was raised to the rafters as the mercurial court gave release to the fear that had plagued it. The older men whispered in the shadows of a tapestry, and Julian caught sight of their faces; both were anguished and hard. Tears ran down the cheeks of one of the maids who clasped the hands of her young mistress in similar distress. “God and Queen Mary! For King Philip!” It rose over all, and Julian was suddenly agonized at the thought of death on far battlefields and of all those who must die. England had stood inviolate for years. What would this mean?
She had to escape. This was her first time in the palace that was one of the favorites of the queen, and she had no idea where the ladies-in-waiting were housed or if she had clothes there. It did not matter; she slipped away and walked blindly down the long corridors, away from the noise and rejoicing. Whatever war meant, it could not affect the plans that George Attenwood had for making her his wife. He was certainly too old to fight.
She put one foot in front of the other aimlessly, observing that the walls grew richer in hangings, the occasional furnishings more valuable. This must be the way to the more important lodgings of the queen. She reached the end of a passage and saw that a small garden glimmered in the sunlight beyond the door. Perhaps a maidservant or lady would be there, and she could ask directions. A tall chair stood just inside the little room that gave onto the garden proper, and a silk-covered volume rested on the seat. Ever curious about the printed word, Julian bent to take it up.
Her fingers brushed against what appeared to be a loosened page, and she felt her stomach contract that the beautiful thing might be inadvertently damaged. It was, she saw, a Spanish work having to do with religion and the punishment of the various degrees of heresy. Carefully she turned to the page and saw it for what it was, a crude drawing done by a master hand.
The old woman wore a crown tipped with flames, and she laughed horribly as she held a man marked with the pomegranate of Spain to her bosom. One hand beckoned others decked with the Hapsburg eagle. Jewels were piled to one side of her, apparently to be given as largesse. Wide bare feet trampled on the Englishmen who lay bound at them. Flaming stakes bordered the edges of the paper. “The unrighteous whore who suckles Spain and destroys England must be dealt with.” The searing words were set out in faultless Latin and English by a clerkly hand that knew how to shape the vileness of them.
Julian sent the thing from her in one quick motion. The virulent hatred it represented frightened her just as much as the streets had done when they were filled with
silent, staring people or with shouting, angry ones. This was the very heart of the court, close to the queen’s own chambers. She, Julian, had sworn her loyalty, but what of all those who could not agree or obey the changes in religious persuasion and yet were loyal subjects of the Tudor queen?
There was a cautious movement from behind one of the hangings just then, and Julian drew back instinctively. The woman who stepped into view held several innocent appearing pages in one hand, but Julian saw that they bore a resemblance to the sheet she had just thrown down. She stared at the newcomer for a long second, then Isabella Acton’s face turned a delicate pink as she recovered her aplomb.
“Lady Redenter, what do you here? I assume that you are looking for the apartments of the ladies-in-waiting. Come, I will show you where they are.” She kept her eyes from the page that now lay on the floor.
“Where am I now?” Julian edged closer to her. “What is it you have there?”
Isabella snapped, “You are rude, insufferably so. Your manners want teaching.”
Julian snatched at the pages then, and Isabella, unprepared, was too slow to pull them free. They tumbled to the floor, and the likenesses of the queen stared foully up at the women. Isabella’s face changed as her lips drew back over white teeth and one hand went swiftly to the pouch at her waist.
Julian caught her wrist and held it in the grip that she had learned from the village boys at Redeswan. “And your loyalty wants evaluating, Lady Acton! Will you tell me why you spread these revolting things about? Are you not the queen’s dear friend?”
Isabella lifted a sharp gaze to Julian’s honestly puzzled face. “What do you intend to do about your discovery? Let me tell you—before you rush away to summon the guards—that other lives besides my own are in peril, English lives. Are you so enamored of the king’s advances that you will place us all in peril?”
