Defiant Desire

by Anne Carsley

  Father Sebastino’s gaze swung back to Julian, and the tips of his rotted teeth showed as he said, “And yet, such a merciful lady is the queen that she would have seen this wretched woman, heard her tale, listened to her lies. I was forced to speak to her with God’s own voice, reminding her of her duty to Him and this realm. She wept, Cromp, can you image that? Her Majesty wept before me and told me she was grateful that I spoke so.” He grinned now and rubbed his hands together.

  Julian’s heart warmed toward the queen, who had tried to be kind even in the face of what she thought was treason. Mary would be just, she thought, but it would be according to her own stern lights, and she was easily influenced. No doubt the priest had brought up Philip’s name and wifely duty. She must keep her face calm now and not reveal herself. Father Sebastino loved cruelty for its own sake; that had been evident to her long ago. He shared the predilections of Attenwood, it seemed.

  “Feed her and prepare her to answer questions,” the priest ordered. “Show her some of the pleasures of this place. I daresay several of these guards could demonstrate.” He turned to look straight at Julian as he spoke. Cromp followed his gaze. “This woman had the opportunity for instruction and dissembled, well nigh refused it, even ran away! She is inhabited by Satan, and he must be driven forth!” His voice rose and he spread his arms wide. “The flames will be the least of it!”

  Julian could bear no more. She let her eyes widen, leaned forward on her stool, and shrieked, “The bat! He has come! Ah, the stench . . . what are you?” Her hands went before her in the sign of the cross, and she stared at the priest with all the terror of her heart and mind in her eyes.

  The others stared and moved away as the priest said, “The woman has been a mummer in her time, but she cannot fool the eye of God! She must be ready for the questioners of whom I will be one. I bear the queen’s own commission in this!”

  “Aye, aye, all shall be as you say!” Cromp gave Julian a baleful look. “When is she required?”

  “Prepare her immediately! I see to this matter personally.” The fierce eyes glittered at Julian, and not for the first time, she saw the hunger there. Then he spun on his heels and was gone. She heard him calling to those who had remained outside and heard the rush of their feet as they hurried to obey.

  “Out.” Cromp recovered his composure now that the holy man was gone, and the guards with him drew back obediently. When the cell was clear he looked at Julian, who tried once again to maintain her air of dazed idiocy. Then in three steps he was at her side and pulled her to him. Before she could resist, his mouth ground down on hers, and his foul-smelling breath threatened to overcome her pose.

  She made her body limp and let her head loll back. Her legs buckled and almost threw both off balance. He thrust her aside and put both hands on his hips as he surveyed the swell of her breasts and the gauntness of her young body. “I’m going to show what it’ll be like for you, girl, when they take you. Best enjoy what you can get; the fire takes a long time.” He snarled the words of deviation and cruelty at her while the little eyes never left her whitening face. At the end he said, “Flesh is nothing; spirit everything. The priest all but said so. I’ll enjoy your last moments.”

  She sat numbly on the floor after he left. Had he gone for wine and refreshments or spectators or instruments of torture? All those days of nothingness and then her enemies returning with savage intent had drained Julian even of the ability to pretend. Her reason did flicker as she sat there and waited for whatever might come.

  Again time drew long for Julian, and this time she had no defense. Tears had long since dried up in her, and anger melted before fear. Prayer was a useless thing when you could not believe. She hated the queen, who had given her up to the beast, and she loathed Father Sebastino, who was her instrument and took such pleasure in what he did. When they came to rape and pillage her body would it be for her as she imagined it must have been for Isabella?

  “Would God I had let them kill the bitch queen!” She said the words into the cooling air, for they had taken the brazier away, and felt the hatred consume her. It must be enough to sustain her in the time ahead, for there was nothing else.

  Light was showing faintly in the cell when the lock on the door rattled and the heavy portal slid back. A dark shape stood revealed there, a hood concealing the features. A servant stood behind, candle in hand. The first one advanced and peered toward Julian, who now lay huddled on her bed.

  She watched through the tangle of her hair. There had been no sleep or rest for her as she waited, but she was not conscious of any weariness. She clenched her fingers, then forced herself to relax. Not yet.

  “Madam? Madam?” The whisper was soft, but there was a familiar note in it. He was closer now, the padding quality of his movements and the dark cloak making him seen animallike in the shadows.

  Now! Julian sprang from the bed, her nails sharp claws, her lips drawn back from her teeth, the still lithe body poised for battle. She hit the figure and tumbled him backward so that he fell against the wall and started to pant. Her fingers touched the softness of beard and jerked. She heard, as if from a distance, her voice repeating a savage curse over and over. The force of her anger drove her on as she slapped at him with her other hand. Let him kill her! Better to die in struggle than submit tamely.

  “Osiris! Osiris! I am sent!” The man tried to shield himself from her and did not strike back. He fended her off as she tore at his cloak, but the hood fell back, and she saw the face that she knew.

  “Matthew!” Julian jerked back, the red fury still licking at her. It was so good to strike back! “What are you doing here?”

  He rose to his feet, a small man with tousled graying hair and a thinner face than when she had last seen him. “Madam, stay your hand. I am sent to help you!”

  “No one can help me, least of all you. And why should you, anyway? A guard in this place?” Her voice went dull and flat. She wondered if those who ruled the Tower knew that this man had once served Charles Varland and helped lure her to his arms. A generation ago that had been and in a different world.

  “Put on this robe and come. At this early hour several guards and a priest will attract little attention. The place is full of prisoners, and gold has been well placed.” He began to unwrap some of the cloth that swathed his body.

  “It is a trick to torment me! How do I know that you mean to help me? It is impossible to escape from the Tower; all know that! What do you know of Osiris?” Julian knew she must not let herself hope; she could not afford to lose the hatred that was sustaining her. She would fan the anger, let the hatred burn upward, and hope that death was swift. Her hands lifted and her aquamarine eyes glittered in the faint light. “Fiends! Fiends!”

  There was a movement at the door as the servant who had been standing beside it now came closer and put down the candle. He straightened up and shook the folds of his own cloak back so that he stood revealed in the coarse cloth of a menial. Charles, Lord Varland, peer of the realm and now truly outlaw. The crest of dark hair was ruffled, and the dark face had not altered a jot. Incredibly, he was smiling, his mouth turning upward in the mocking gesture she so well remembered.

  “Many might use the name of Charles Varland, lady, but few know the name of my dog. You have frightened poor Matthew far more than all the warders of the Tower, but you cannot do so to me. What say you? Would you leave this prison now?”

  Julian stared at him, and her tongue could barely find speech. “You came here for me?”

  “So it seems. I see no other prisoner here.” He came closer, and she caught the wind-fresh scent of him. “Put on the robe. You will trust us now?”

  Julian seemed to feel nothing as she took the dark robe he handed her. Matthew stood revealed now in stained garments which were in the queen’s colors. He turned away as she fumbled with the ties of the sacklike garment she had been given that day or several days ago. Charles stepped close and whisked it away, then settled the robe over her and tied the cor
d at her waist. Her fingers rose to pull the hood over her face and were stopped by his hand which folded them over a needle-sharp dagger.

  “Walk behind Matthew and myself. Your thoughts are on things not of this world. If we are stopped, remember that; it may prove the salvation of us all. If it appears that we are taken, use the dagger as seems best to you.” His voice was as calm as though they stood in the London streets and planned which cookshop to visit.

  “Charles, I cannot believe that you are here, that this is real.” She faltered and began again to tell him of Father Sebastino’s visit and what was planned for her. “They will come at any time, and you both run great risk.”

  “More if we stand here and chatter. You did ever talk a great deal.” Charles gave her a sharp look. “Are you ready?”

  “Aye.” The dangerous emotion that made her voice shake was abruptly stilled as the anger returned. Anger at those who had taken her prisoner and anger at this dark man who had dared much for her sake. She knew he spoke as he did to bolster her, but Matthew’s quick bark of laughter irritated her. “And have been these many minutes. Let us go if you are done.”

  For the first time since that night of her entry, which she could now barely remember, Julian saw the outside world. The corridor was narrow and dim, lit only by one torch that cast a guttering light. Matthew drew out a ring of keys and locked the door to her cell, then they walked in single formation down the narrowing passage that led off to the left and was dewed with droplets of water. It rapidly grew so small that there was only room enough for one person to walk comfortably and became very dim. Charles had taken one of the torches and held it high in the turning passage. The air was growing fetid and rank, the stone floor wetter by the minute. Julian’s feet in the court slippers were icy and sopping. She was shaking with the cold and a rising element of elation. “No longer alone,” said her brain and heart, “no longer alone.”

  They came to a barred door set low in a stone wall at the end of the twisting corridor. A residue of water sloshed about, and she heard the crackle of ice as it moved. The light from the torch showed the heavy stones reaching up to a low ceiling where beads of water were gathered. It took little imagination to see the fugitive, panting and exhausted, arriving here and clutching at the bars, seeking to tear them away while the guards came toward him to carry him back into captivity. Julian caught her breath in a little sob. It was unbearable to be so close, cruel joke this!

  “Can you find it?” Matthew turned to Charles and took the torch from him to hold it high in his turn.

  “The curved one with the broken edge near the top.” Charles reached up and began to examine the wet stones that looked alike to the others. He probed as Matthew held the light closer. “Nothing. They seem to change in the wet and the shadows.”

  “You have wasted your gold.” Matthew sank back on his heels and spoke flatly, the words all the more terrible for their complete lack of emotion. “We should have known it was too easy.”

  “Nonsense.” Charles spoke briskly and resumed his search, the torch in his own hand this time.

  Julian heard the sweep of cloth and felt the furtive movement before she actually saw anything. By that time it was too late, for the burly figure brushed by her, light flashing on his drawn sword as he held it against Charles’s back.

  “Thought you were out, didn’t you? Well, you’re going right back to the cells, the lot of you, and there’ll be a turn of the lash for trying to escape. How did you manage it, anyway?” He wore the queen’s colors, and a leather helmet rested squarely on his head. “Don’t move or I’ll run you through!”

  Charles remained still, not daring to move or shift the torch backward. Matthew was on the floor and off balance, his own weapon set aside. Julian registered all this in a single, stricken glance even as it dawned on her why the guard had not glimpsed her or, if he had, taken her to be one of the shadows of this place of fear. Her black robe mingled with the darkness, and she stood apart in one of the natural coverts of the wall.

  She did not think or plan as the keen blade rose in her hand with a life all its own and buried itself to the hilt in the fleshy shoulder just beyond. The man fell with a muted cry, and Matthew was on him in the second, his fingers squeezing the life away while helpless feet hammered in the icy water. Charles whirled and looked at Julian.

  “Get over here and hold this. You did well, but others are doubtless behind him even at this moment. Come!”

  The matter-of-fact voice lifted Julian up and kept the screams back. She took the torch in one shaking hand and started to raise it, ignoring the dragging sounds Matthew made as he hauled the body back into the shadows. Something caught her eye and held it. Charles looked down, gave a quick exclamation, and pulled at the protruding edge of the stone with one hand. It gave a little and then began to move with a slow grating sound that rasped on all their nerves.

  Julian’s voice rose high. “A way out! Can it be true?” She watched as the gaping darkness showed more steps that seemed to lead down into the pits themselves.

  “Eventually.” Charles moved close beside her, and his arm was warm around her shoulders. “Matthew, bring him in here and we will leave him. Hurry.”

  “Aye, my lord.” He stepped away, appearing suddenly years younger than he had looked moments before.

  “We are all murderers.” Julian spoke the words fearfully as she looked into the gray eyes so close to her own.

  “You are as brave as you are beautiful, Julian. Deborah of old did as you have done and was honored by her God and her people all her days.” Charles kissed her full on the lips and drew her close.

  In this most dangerous moment of their lives, poised between several horrible deaths and standing in blood of their own shedding, Julian Redenter and Charles Varland were closer than when they shared the bed of passion.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The air was fetid and thick in the passage which was so small that they had to bend slightly as they walked, feet planted carefully, the smoking torch held low. Shudders racked Julian’s body as the slime oozed over her icy toes. Matthew went before her, Charles came after, and she felt a sense of relief that was out of proportion to the never ending nightmare in which she moved. It seemed impossible to her that she had ever lived in a world of sunlight or drawn a free breath; now she fought in the anger that might eventually help to save them. Julian was beginning to understand something of the force that drove Charles Varland.

  The way began to level off and rise as they went along it. Rough stones jutted out on both sides of the walls, and the ceiling shone black in the faint light. Water dripped steadily in some places, but in others little rims of ice were formed. Their breaths blew out frostily ahead of them, and the sloshing noises of their shoes were the only sounds in this underground tunnel. Julian thought of the old tales of these who fled, only to turn back on themselves and return unwittingly to the same place from which they had gone forth. This might be such a thing, a refined sort of torture to lure the plotters together. She thought it funny, her senses swung, and she almost stumbled but caught herself in time. Was this how one lost one’s reason?

  She heard a far-off roaring sound which faded and rose again before it was joined by another. Chills ran down her back that were not due to the cold, but Matthew gave a chuckle of satisfaction, and Charles came round Julian to stare at the expanse of corridor.

  “Now will tell the tale, my comrades.” He spoke casually, but she heard the underlying strain.

  A few swift strides and he was bending down to a section of stone and running long fingers over it. There was a rumble of iron as the lower part slid back to reveal an empty, vile-smelling room of Stygian blackness that torchlight could barely dispel. Droppings and rushes were on the floor, and the odor of angry wild animals made her gag. Strangely enough, Julian remembered, that very same smell had been at Smithfield at the time of Isabella’s burning.

  Charles hurried them through and pulled the panel back into place. His
hand gripped Julian’s hard for a brief moment, and then, single file, they went rapidly across the room and into another, smaller one containing the same compressed odors. They bent to go through a door set low in the wall and this time emerged into an ill-lit passage that curved away into murkiness.

  “Ho, what do you do here at this hour, sirs?” The voice was harsh, breath rattling in the lungs, coming from directly in front of them.

  Julian peered up from the depths of her cowl to see an extremely fat man swaying as he watched them, a leather bottle clutched in one hand, a wide grin on his pudding face. The roar she had previously heard came again, and this time the sound was so wild and desperate that she flinched; once again her control threatened to break.

  The man cocked his head to the side. “The pets do not care for the rain, I think, but then they can’t have this, can they?” He waved the bottle and began to laugh, then to wheeze. “No one comes here if they can help it. Why do you?”

  Matthew’s voice was wheedling, pitched low. “Nothing for it, the good father must see all in this place. He is newly come from Spain, you know, and the Tower is famous. Now he is chilled and tired; after he takes the air we will escort him to a bed and fire. He meditates even at this moment.”

  Julian saw that Charles balanced the torch in both hands and shifted his weight as if restless. He would thrust or throw it as might become necessary. Her own weapons must be the coiled anger within her and her sharp nails; the little dagger had been left behind with the body of the guard.

  The fat one guffawed and scratched as he said, “Listen to the lions. They do not need prayers—they need food! Fresh meat!” The roaring came steadily now, and he gulped at the bottle.

  Julian entered into the guise now and lifted her head so that she regarded him from the depths of the cowl much as Father Sebastino had viewed her. He caught the movement and drew back. No one in Mary’s England laughed at the priests and went safely.