by Anne Carsley
Then they lay naked together in the ferns while the soft winds blew over them, the dog Osiris standing watch. Julian sought his mouth in her turn, letting the urgency of her lips and hands speak of her hunger. His back and thighs were muscular, very firm as her hands slipped over them and rose again to touch his manhood, which was ready for her. Charles watched her intently as she touched him and withdrew, the chestnut hair falling over her face in the light.
“Lady mine, come.” The words might have been blown on the breeze that brought the scent of flowering trees to them.
“Aye, my dear lord.”
The long sweetness began once more, stretching to infinity as he moved gently into her, thrusting and moving with the rhythm of her. His mouth drank of hers, and her arms held him closer still. He grew in her so that it seemed she would split with the force of him. She expanded and drew him deeper in a mingling of rich juices. Their tongues thrust and played, then locked together. She was flaming, rising, tearing, and convulsing, that strange yearning melting into light. They soared, swung on the winds of heaven, rose and fell into the shattering glory that was all the richer for agony shared and postponed. She felt him move in her and remain as he positioned her so that they still locked together. The force of the release drew her down into the whirlpool of sleep, her last sight that of the carved face tender above her own.
When Julian awoke she saw that he was fully dressed in sober green wool, the kind any merchant might wear, and sitting a little apart from her as he rubbed Osiris’s big head, seemingly deep in somber thought. His cloak was over her, and the brown dress hung on a branch so that the wind might more easily reach it. He turned his head and saw her watching him. Instantly his expression grew completely impassive.
“Have I slept long?” She had to say something to break the stretching silence.
“An hour or so. You were exhausted. Your gown will soon be dry, and I will see that you reach the palace without being noticed. A word in the ears of the guards who patrol these grounds will make sure that women can walk safely here once more; they have been too lax of late. It would start gossip if you speak of this, I think.”
“You are right. My maid is discreet and will say nothing when she tends me.” Julian looked at him, remote and strange, not the man who had lifted her to the heights and shown her the tenderness of which he was capable. She certainly had reason for discretion and should be grateful that he wished for it also. Had he not saved her life? “Charles, I owe you gratitude beyond the telling. What can I say?”
Charles Varland stood up and began to pace, the dog at his heels. His voice was curiously muffled. “Julian, I did not mean for this to happen. I wanted to comfort you and bring you back to the world of the living. The passion that is between us helped your anguish; that is my only excuse. I would not willingly involve you in the maze and the contradictions that my life has been. You will be safe from me in the future, I promise you that. I have some self-control, after all.”
Julian had been in pain often enough to recognize it even in the mask of courteous remoteness that he strove to show now. “I wanted it, too, Charles. Please believe that. You have no cause to reproach yourself on my account.” Her heart lifted. At least the mockery of their previous meetings was no longer between them.
He whirled around and she saw that he fought for control. “No cause! If you but knew!” Then the cool mask fell and he was himself again. “I have been laggard. There are responsibilities that I must attend to.” He spoke as if to himself, his gaze far-seeing.
“Do you go to war?” She began to fumble for her clothes.
“War?” His glance focused on her, but she would have sworn that he did not see her. “That is one way to put it. There are many kinds of war, are there not?” Osiris whined and the sound seemed to return him from his contemplation. “Julian, you are no longer thinking that this was a plan to kill you? You were taken with the fright of the moment. I should not like to think of you in fear of shadows.”
She stood up, the cloak concealing her slender ripeness. Julian Redenter, too, had her pride. He must not see that she longed to throw herself into his arms. As always, she must walk her own pathway. “I do not fear the shadows, Lord Varland, for I have been among them all my life and am not yet overcome.”
He gave her a faint smile. “I will walk by the river while you dress. Osiris shall remain with you. Call when you are ready.”
Julian looked at the dark face, the bold nose and arching brows, the faint lines under his eyes, and knew that he, no less than she, bore the marks and scars of passion’s consuming flame.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The step was stealthy and gliding in the warm dark as the shadow seemed to detach itself from the wall and move toward the bed. Julian flung herself upright, her hands grasping for the little dagger that she always carried now. Her body was tense but shivering with expectation. She had been so near sleep that she could not distinguish dream and reality.
“What do you want?” She heard her own voice rise harsh and dangerous even as she drew her legs under her in preparation for defense. “Who are you?”
“Mistress! Mistress! It’s Nan. You’ve been riding the nightmare again. I heard you groaning and came to see if I could help you; I was sleeping right where you told me to, just there at the door.” The little maid’s face was twisted with the nightly concern for her mistress, her eyes wide with apprehension. “Are you all right. Lady Julian? The guard is not far away, you need not fear.”
Julian wanted to laugh but knew that if she did it would bring on the tears that had pressed upon her since the attempt on her life almost a week ago. A week filled with daily watchfulness, covert contemplation of Isabella’s smooth, pale face, mingling with ladies and courtiers, never in the solitude she had come to crave. A week of fitful slumber, night horrors, and waking shrieks; a bane of some sort, she had told Nan when asking her to sleep in the chamber with her, and not worth disturbing others at this tense time. “It will pass soon,” she had said, knowing that her fear looked out of her eyes and communicated itself to the impressionable maid.
“I am sorry, Nan. The same thing, you know. Let’s try to rest again.” Julian knew that she would not sleep, but she must go through the motions.
“Aye, madam.” Nan continued to stare at her mistress even after returning to her pallet across the floor. She lit a candle and the guttering light made the shadows even more evident in the chamber, showing the stoutly bolted door and tiny, high window.
What tales would she spread among the other servants for all that Julian had cautioned her to silence? Julian sighed and tried to dismiss the matter that hammered at her vitals. She knew that her life was sought and that only by constant guard could she save it, but she had walked that path before as had all at Redeswan. No, the true pain was that Lord Varland had not come near her in the past days, nor had she seen him about the court as she did her duties by rote. They had shared so much together, and yet he had escorted her back to the edge of the palace grounds, in circumspect silence, careful that none should see them and further smirch her reputation, bowed politely, and left her, adjuring her once more not to venture out as she had done. Surely he could have inquired after her, spoken to her, been in the same world with her.
Julian fought back the fantasies that came unbidden even as she knew them to be the only antidote to the sick fear that plagued her. She, supple in his arms, drinking of his mouth, delighting in the thrust of his spear that impaled her again and again. He, bold and impatient, bending before the passion that took them both. They, together in the dear aftermath of love, held in the bonds so willingly taken, bodies one flesh. “Never, never. It will never be so for us.” Tears trickled out her tightly closed lids even as she called herself fool, weeping for a man who must hold her so light once she had yielded to his first touch. She looked for anger to strengthen her and found only pain.
At midmorning of the next day Julian sat under a flowering bush with the obligatory needlewor
k and savored the peace of the bright day. The river sparkled in the sun that gleamed off the surfaces of the green leaves and was reflected on the climbing roses of the bower. Lady Clarence frankly dozed in her seat, and the other two older ladies-in-waiting compared stitches and yawned. Gay groups of courtiers strolled up and down the garden paths, and snatches of laughter and song came to Julian’s ears and rose with the birdsong just above her head. She was not sorry that Lady Clarence had instructed her to remain with them, though some of the younger ladies regarded it as a penance. Here her turbulent spirit could find surcease, she thought, knowing that her eyes still looked for Charles Varland though her head was decorously bent.
She heard the murmurs of respect, the assured steps, and the low commanding voices in one breath, and then they were before her little group, the sovereigns of England, arm-in-arm as any man and maid might walk. Philip was smooth and sleek, the little lines of discontent gone from his eyes, his heavy mouth curving up. A man satisfied, Julian’s mind whispered coldly, as she started to kneel with the others only to be caught up by the queen’s husky voice.
“No ceremony, ladies. We but walk in our gardens as other folk do. Parting is so soon, too soon. Sit you back now.” Her eyes drifted over them, unseeing. Julian knew that she saw only Philip, who would soon leave her bereft. The sun etched the lines in the worn face and neck, brought into relief the harsh veins on her hands. The deep rose gown could not hide the ravages of age and tears. Once again Julian saw the face of Lady Gwendolyn, and she ached for this woman, queen or no, who loved as her mother had.
Quickly Julian lowered her own gaze but not before the amused laughter came into Philip’s face. She had been caught pitying the queen! Pray God others had not seen. She began to fuss with her skirts and reach for her needlework, but the smooth words pierced her so that she stood irresolute.
“Look, madam, who comes yonder but Lord Varland!” Philip spoke to his queen, but the light gaze flickered from her to Julian and back again.
Julian felt the upswing of emotion that seemed to blot out the rest of the world as she looked at the tall, lithe figure, in green and silver coming slowly toward them. Her ears rang, the blood ran hot in her veins, she felt set apart and yet more alive than she had ever been. She could not think, she could only feel.
“Ho, Charles, I had begun to think that you would not return before my sailing date! To refuse my commission and then not bid me farewell—that would have been gross insult to your king and pain to your friend.” Philip stepped forward a little as if to meet Charles. This was honor indeed, for proud Spain did not relax any demands; others obeyed.
Then Charles was coming more fully around the flowering borders, making his bow, and saying, “Your Gracious Majesties, allow me to present Geraldine Rothsoon, my betrothed, who has promised to wed me in the spring.”
Spring! thought Julian wildly. But it is scarce full summer now. He will be free for months yet. Surely I but dream, soon I will wake. She stood with the others, very still and proper, her body frozen, staring at the girl who must hold Charles Varland’s heart.
Geraldine Rothsoon could not be seventeen and looked less. She was very small, her head well below Charles’s shoulder, but she was perfectly formed with a pure oval face, curling black hair, and black eyes. Her gown was palest pink with billowing overskirts and sleeves of a deeper shade. A veil of pink lace seeded with tiny pearls drifted over her shoulders, and a huge pink pearl shone on one slender hand. The pale face was flushed with color as she made some response that the roaring in Julian’s head did not allow her to hear.
Philip smiled as he lifted the girl from her curtsy. A liveried messenger stood poised just beyond Charles, and the queen’s anxious face looked toward him as she waited for the moment to beckon. Charles wore his usual look of disdain; not once did he glance toward Julian or give any sign that he knew she was there. Julian felt the powerful pull of him and thought that he must know.
“For one so fair I must forgive your determination to remain in England.” The king relinquished the girl with a half sigh as she blushed and moved toward Charles. “I wonder that you have waited so long to wed, my lord.”
He put one hand under her elbow, and Julian could see the tenderness in the gesture. “And I, in my turn, wonder that my fair Geraldine will have me.” Charles turned the small palm upward and kissed it in a courtly gesture that might have been a love motion.
The queen said, “Marriage is a good and commendable estate, Lord Varland, and we well recommend it to you. I see that so young and fair a bride, with rich estates to be maintained, will keep you in Cornwall. Is it not true?”
“Even so, madam.” Charles’s face set in hard lines as the small girl swayed against him. “My lady tires in the early heat, Your Majesties. May we have your leave to retire?”
Philip of Spain looked warningly at his wife. “With such men as this in England, traitors are less to be feared until we come again.” He touched her arm and her frown faded. “Go, Charles, and our blessings upon you.”
Queen Mary was not one to dissemble; she had ever been honest and blunt, but now her distrust of Charles Varland was as plain as the adoration for Philip on her face. She smiled, a bare creaking of the facial muscles. “God and Our Lady bless you and may your marriage be fruitful.” Then she turned away toward the messenger.
Julian knew herself to be fair that morning despite the past racking days. Geraldine’s beauty was that of a heavenly queen, her own was that of earth, of the very fullness of the spring. Her gown was golden and simple with flowing sleeves and a wide trailing skirt. The chestnut hair, unbound, tumbled down her back and clustered in curls at her temples. It was not the way a proper lady in attendance on the queen should dress, but much was excused in these days of leave-taking. Now the very simplicity of her attire made her stand out, and she knew it.
She stepped forward, smiling, knowing her eyes to be as cold as Charles Varland’s face. There was no way to know if the maimer of his announcement was deliberate; she remembered his changed manner after he saved her life and wondered what had so altered him. She said, “And I, Lord Varland, must offer you my felicitations on your coming nuptials. Lady Geraldine, I know your lord only slightly, but he is indeed a man of honor.”
The eyes that looked at Julian might have been a thousand years old, but the pretty lips smiled and the fair face blushed again in shyness. Charles did not show any emotion—he might have been carved from stone—but the lash about honor did not escape him. He drew Geraldine back toward the shade and motioned to a maid who had been hovering close by.
“As the queen has said, marriage is a holy estate, Lady Redenter. You will enter upon it soon, I trust?” He turned without waiting for an answer and supported his betrothed away, his own back stiff and unyielding.
Julian tried to find anger and could not. She was beyond tears or hurt, and could only be thankful for her outward calm. The other ladies had settled themselves at another low request from the king, who waited for his wife to finish her business. Even the day was the same, brilliant and warm. Did it matter that the light was gone from one young girl? In that time of bitterness, under the amused eyes of the man who had wanted to dally with her himself, in the sight of the gossiping, curious court, Julian Redenter knew what she had only partially admitted to herself behind the iron barriers of what she called her pride. She loved a man pledged to another. She, too, was victim to the all-devouring, immolating passion that had enveloped her mother, that she saw in the queen. She loved Lord Charles Varland, not only with her hungry, seeking flesh, but with her mind and soul, foolish though it might be.
“You will naturally pray for the swift return of your betrothed from the north, Lady Redenter? I fear the court will be far less gay than formerly, now that we embark upon our necessary war. When you are wed, I shall command Lord and Lady Attenwood to visit Spain. He has relatives there, you know, and lands as well. Our country can be harsh; you might wish to remain in Madrid while he travels.”
Philip’s voice was as soft as the bee flight toward the flowers, but his eyes were in her bodice. “It is good that Lord Attenwood has Spanish connections. That is one of the reasons that I considered him a good choice for your husband and so I told the queen when she consulted me. Would it please you to come to Spain, Lady Redenter?”
He played the double game with her and Julian knew it. At the court of Spain for the best of reasons, safely wed, well chaperoned except when he wished it, her husband acquiescent and rewarded—she could have no illusions about what Philip intended now. She made her voice uncomprehending, dull, but raised it just enough so that her words carried. “No, sire. I wish to remain in England always, even though I am sure that Spain is most fair. England is my home.”
“You forget. England is ours, too.” He spoke the words just as Mary turned toward him, her small face twisted.
Julian bobbed a curtsy, knowing that she must be alone, knowing that she must divert suspicion or walk in more danger than she had ever imagined. She said, “I believe that the world is other than I have supposed it to be, sir. Greatly do I yearn toward the peace of God and his Church. After I have searched my soul further and counseled with the priests, I will seek the cloister if it is willed.”
Philip of Spain gave a short bark of laughter as his eyes raked her once again. His wife lifted one hand in a benediction of simple faith that shamed both the girl who sought only escape and the man who called himself the head of God’s armies.
“If that is your wish, child, none will pray for you more than I. But be most careful; God is not mocked, either by the high or the low.” The fervent voice of the queen rang harshly over the garden, bringing a gay tinkle of song nearby to an abrupt halt. “Go now and we will speak of this when the sad days are come upon us.” She put her fingers possessively on Philip’s sleeve, and color rose to her sallow cheeks. “Husband, there are grave matters to discuss.”
