Defiant Desire

by Anne Carsley

  Julian almost dropped her cup and her eyes went wide. “An astrologer! But that is death. Especially now!”

  Charles drained his cup and set it down on the stone. ‘Tonight we shall cast the horoscope of Queen Mary Tudor, Philip of Spain, and the Princess Elizabeth! If the latter is favorable, my men shall know and gain heart from it.”

  “It is held to be sorcery, magic. Several have been banished from the kingdom, tried for their lives. And, still, men have faith in a nebulous God, why not the stars and their patterns? We can at least see those.” Her face flamed with excitement. “Charles, will you let me be present? I must!”

  “There is the strangeness of it all, Julian. Clara insists that you be. Our fates, she says, are inextricably interwoven with those of the great ones. That is why I have gone to such lengths to explain it all to you. I thought you would wail or demur.” The sardonic grin quirked at his mouth, and he stretched lithely. “I should have known you were bolder than that.”

  “So you should, my lord.” She gave the imitation of a curtsy, glad of the lightness between them and hoping to conceal the terror she felt. It was death to cast the horoscope of a reigning sovereign and a sin to go beyond the laws of God.

  Charles sighed and folded himself in his cloak. “I must sleep. Keep watch until Clara returns.” He pillowed his head on one arm and closed his eyes.

  Julian watched the clear profile, the line of the straight nose, and the presently relaxed lips. One phase of their relationship was done, she thought, and felt the rigor on her once more.

  The short afternoon light had given way to almost instant darkness before Clara returned, waking Charles, waving Julian aside with an impatient gesture, and settled herself in the back of the hut where she spread charts, parchments, two old books with heavy clasps, and what appeared to be a jar of stones around her. “The dates and times, to the instant if you can, and the places, of their births. Tell me again. Quickly.” She demanded the dates of both Charles’s and Julian’s births, frowned, bent over her charts, and began to mutter. “I must have absolute silence if this is to be done properly. There is not much time.”

  Charles went back, apparently to resume his rest, but Julian saw that he held himself tense and alert. She sat staring into the fire, wondering at what point he had revealed himself as other than a ship-wrecked commander to Clara. She had expected something far more mysterious than the process now visible. What had those scandals been about that astrologers should seem a menace to the peace of the kingdom? More persecution!

  The crackling fire cast long shadows on the walls of the hut and turned Clara’s hair into a red-tinged aureole as she pored over the starry maps that Julian remembered vaguely were supposed to indicate not only past but future if correctly viewed. The rain seemed to have lessened outside, but the wind still clamored for admittance, and the two smelly candles swayed thin flames in the cold air that entered despite the stuffed cracks.

  “Ah!” Clara threw down the reed pen she had been using to calculate and reached for the stones in the jar. She drew out one that was cylindrical and reflected light, then another large as her fist and perfectly smooth. She lifted these and looked long into them. Charles and Julian followed her gaze, but Julian could see nothing. Slowly Clara lowered them and stared straight into the eyes of Charles Varland, a tiny smile touching her lips. Julian felt the chills lift the hair on her arms. It was as if great leathery wings beat in the little room, and she began to repeat the words of the Hail Mary in her mind in repetition that must constitute protection.

  “What is it? What do you see? Have you finished? You have only just begun!” Charles came closer, the urgency in his voice making him sound angry. “Tell me, woman!”

  Clara rose to her feet, the black robe seeming to billow about her in the red glow. Her shadow ran longer on the wall and over the ceiling as she held out the cylindrical stone in much the same manner that Julian had brandished the cross of the sword earlier. Her voice was deep, growling, powerful, not that of the old woman, authoritative though she had been. “You would know what the stars have shown me, Charles Varland? Would you know your own future and that of this woman?”

  Charles put both hands on his hips, and the light etched his carved profile in brilliance. “That is what I have asked, though not of myself, but of the powers of England. What of the queen? The princess? Why do you hesitate?”

  “There is war, many ships, terrible danger in a far time. Not now. Prepare.” Clara’s voice fell to a whisper and rose again. “Your star and that of this woman are of different houses. The danger is also now, now and in your joining.”

  Charles spoke louder. “That was not my question. My future does not matter, nor does the future of a far time. The woman I will care for. Answer me, Clara!”

  She whirled on him and gave a snarling laugh that made Julian rise to her feet. “I have seen Mary Tudor lie dead in her palace and all the world depart from her. She will die, and all the world will be ranged against England just as it is now. Your own cause will fade and wither before another light.”

  “When will it be?” Julian forced the words out, surprised at the strength of her voice, delighted at the lifting joy she felt that the woman spoke of Charles and herself together. The brief moment died as the farseeing gaze fastened on her.

  “You have seen the shape of future and ignored it. Be warned.”

  Then the hut faded for Julian, and she saw again the cliffs and the red lights that meant death and worse. She saw Charles and the darkness that enveloped him. She saw herself alone on a dark plain and knew that she would be that way for whatever little part of her life remained.

  "... I am sorry, but I can do no more. It is as I said. The queen will die in bitterness, and England will suffer. No more can I read. The weariness is come upon me.” Julian was standing where she had been moments before. But now Clara was half crumpled in the corner as she gathered her materials together, her hands shaking. Charles was saying angrily, “But that is mere fortune-telling. You are one of the best astrologers and highly commended. Have I not said that you will have payment? Do you doubt the word of a Varland?”

  “It is not that. I have something of the sight. The woman can see a little—I felt it.” Clara’s voice trembled, and for once she looked her age, as old woman, shaking, pitiable. “I can calculate nothing when it comes upon me. I have endured enough; it tears me in twain, the double burden.”

  “You will not pursue this?” Charles retreated into ice. “You will not try?”

  “I cannot.”

  His anger flamed even as the fire had done, and he drove one fist into another with a hammering motion that made Clara shrink away, her hands over her face. He took a step toward her, his foot trampling on the charts and toppling the jar of stones.

  “Charles, you must not!” Julian ran at him and threw her arms around him, spinning him back so that he faced away from Clara. She clung to him with all the power in her slender body even as the fury racked him.

  He twisted for a moment and then was still, the hard eyes staring into hers, then he relaxed. Around the wide shoulder, Julian saw Clara’s smile, wide and triumphant and evil, flash out before she bent to gather her materials.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Julian walked several paces behind Charles, her hand near the sword at her waist, ready even as he was for the sight or sound of pursuit. The December winds roared across the craggy land and tore at all in its way. Julian’s cloak was not sufficient protection against it, and she shivered steadily. The cold at least helped to take her mind off the increasing pain in her feet. She wondered if Charles knew where he was going and almost did not care—cessation of motion would be enough. Would she ever be warm again?

  The events of the past night rose again in her mind, and she did not try to stop the memory or the fear that rendered her as icy as the wind. Charles had spent most of the time staring into the fire after his fury at Clara was turned aside by Julian. The old woman had not spoken then, nor
had she this morning when they started to leave. She remained rigid on her pallet, black eyes gazing at something they could not see. They could not have left in the night because the weather was both pouring rain and sleety; it had held Nim up, and when he returned in the early light Charles had bidden him tend Clara. “That much we owe her. Then go to the coast and the meeting place. I will join you when this task is done.” He had surveyed Julian unpleasantly, and she felt as if she were a bale of unwanted goods.

  They had been walking ever since, and not a word had he addressed to her. She vowed that the first one would not be hers, but physical discomfort was becoming real distress. Sooner or later he must stop, even Charles VarIand could not know this land so well that he could traverse it in the dark under a sleety gale. The tenderness mingled with anger that was ever part of her caring for him was beginning to yield to a flinty determination. He would see no more of her heart spread open before him. She would draw into herself and be courteous only, for she owed him more than her life and would never forget that.

  They climbed up a slippery stretch of rock, then Charles turned off to the left and approached what seemed to be a massive pile of boulders twined with summer’s remnants of vines and creepers. She followed numbly as he went behind them and bent down as if searching. At that her control broke.

  “Charles, what is this? Have you gone mad to scrabble in this pile? Surely there is some sort of shelter in this benighted area that we can look for without digging for it?” The wind carried her words high and dumped them down again, and the sleet slashed her lips, momentarily removed from the damp muffler.

  “Come.” He rose and caught her arm, pulling her toward the hole in the ground that had been revealed by his fingers. “It will be better soon, I promise.”

  The warmth in his tone threatened to bring the tears, and she regretted her savagery. Now she followed him into the passageway that was leading downward. Incredibly, he produced a candle fragment and struck a rock against another to provide, after several attempts, a flame to light it. Then the earth and rocks were pulled back so that no evidence of their entry should remain.

  The space at the bottom of the stairs had obviously been used as a lair by others, for it was wide and long at one end, narrowing at the other into a passage much like the one they entered by, and there were coverlets, an old chest standing open which held clothing, more candle fragments, and a pallet in one corner from which the occupant could survey the entrances. Wonder of wonders, there was even a small hearth and debris piled beside it.

  Charles met Julian’s amazed stare and gave the quirking grin. “There are many of us, Julian, and there are many hiding places. When we leave we will prepare it as well as we can for the next fugitive. It is blessed shelter, and we will be safe here until the storm blows itself out.”

  “Blessed shelter.” She spoke the words as he did and began to help with the igniting of the fire that was to restore them both. Her stiffened fingers were clumsy at first, and Charles lifted a branch for her. The touch on her skin made it burn and she drew back, well aware of her reaction to his simplest gesture.

  They slept close to each other that night for warmth, since the fire must be carefully watched, and it was very cold even in this sheltered place. Weariness held them aloof from any talk, but Julian knew that it was more than that the next day when Charles, the bare gray light of dawn streaming in from the other passage, an aperture planned for rapid exit if need be, touched her shoulder, pointed out the bread and cheese, and stalked away. She tried to sleep again, but it was hopeless. Rising, she walked up and down to get warm, then inspected the chest which produced another, welcome, jacket, and a countrywoman’s dress of coarse brown cloth, a man’s shirt and breeches, and a short cape. She wondered what manner of people had been through here and what their fates had been.

  The day was an eternity, but when she tried to venture out the one open way, sleet and wind beat her back. The other by which they had entered could not he opened from this side. Charles, finally returning iced and withdrawn, said only, “It shows no signs of abating. We must rest while we can. I watched the entire day from a covert, and nothing moved on the face of the land.”

  “Let me come with you tomorrow. I feel as if I were in prison again down here.”

  “You will remain here.” His darkened eyes glittered into hers, and she was forced to turn away. He fought a battle she could not fathom, and Julian knew that they were as far apart from each other as though they were separated by miles.

  Two more days with hours a hundred years long. Two more nights lying still beside the equally unmoving big body that had once given her such joy. She wanted to lean over and say, “Can we not comfort ourselves?” The rebuff was not to be imagined. She thought of the time in the Tower and how hope had restored itself then. Greedy to have life and yet want more!

  When the gale continued to blow and snow drifted into the passageway, even Charles gave up and returned to sit by the meager fire they dared to make. He stared into it and did not move. Julian watched and finally spoke his name, then again. The face he turned to her bore a look that seemed to come from far away, and she knew that he walked in another time. The question that she meant to ask about the village where he was taking her faded, and words that she would once have never dared utter now came naturally.

  “Charles. Is what happened to Beth the reason that you feel as you do?” She wanted to add “toward me” but had not quite the courage for that. If he resented this probing in the past, he would quickly tell her and that would halt it. Still, the uncertainty of his temper she had reason to know.

  “Are you witch that you know I thought of her?” His gaze was less blind now, and she saw that it disguised, and had all along, the bareness of pain. “There has never been anyone around me that I would permit to speak that name, and yet when you speak it I think how long ago all that was.”

  Julian saw the soft look in the mist gray eyes, a look he had never turned on her, tender though he had been at times, and felt jealous of a dead woman. “When my mother lay in her last illness she spoke to my father as though he sat beside her bed. He was killed, as you know, before I was born, and she never saw another face but that it bore his own.” She felt the anger of her childhood—she had never been compensation enough for Lady Gwendolyn. “I think that here in Cornwall, in the land that is your own, the past returns and bears upon you. Talk to me, Charles, it will ease you.” She stretched out both hands to the fire and felt the warmth run up her arms under the hanging sleeves of the shirt.

  “Ease your curiosity, you mean.” He jibed at her, then lowered his gaze to the fire shapes. “You need not think, madam, that because we have lain together you are privy to my thoughts and privacies, nor shall be.”

  “You know that is not true.” She spoke quietly, for she had known bitterness enough to be aware of the open wounds it left. “I only know that the past and present often are interchangeable.”

  He rose and began to pace up and down, causing the cold wind to swirl around them both. His hand hammered into the other palm in the gesture that was typical of him when frustrated. “I must get back to sea. The French are pushing against Calais. If England loses that foothold in France it could spell the end of Mary Tudor! This cursed storm! Curse the fate that betrayed us and destroyed my ship!”

  “You would fight against the queen even when English territory is at stake?” Julian was horrified in spite of herself. Calais was the only part of the English conquest of France in the last century that remained to her country. “Even your princess would count that a traitor’s scheme, whatever the motive.”

  “Traitor is only a word! I do what is right for myself and those who follow me. Your queen is a traitor that she tears this realm in pieces, and Spain waits to gobble it up!” He came to stand over her, the words pouring from him as from a goblet of bitter medicine. “You wonder that I can feel this way, you who have seen the hand of cruelty in the name of religion and who have been its victim
yet waited blindly for the slaughter. Ah, Julian Redenter, you have been bored in this cavern, all that remains of the castle of a man I knew in my youth. Destroyed by the troops of Her Majesty and he dead on Tower Hill as I should be if I believed the mouthings of those who call themselves great.” He put a hand to her chin and held it in a hard grip for a few moments. She met his eyes boldly, and he jerked away.

  “You wish amusement? You shall have it. My name is old, the family wealth long departed. Listen well, for I do not speak of these things to all. My parents died in a boating accident the year I was born. My uncle, a recluse and a scholar, inherited and almost immediately ran afoul of King Henry on the matter of his divorce. The king was at that time sending about to various members to most discreetly sound them out as to what was called ‘his secret matter.’ Uncle Roger, immersed in the world of the Greeks, minced no words. Neither did King Henry, who was not as bold as he later came to be. The royal interest was withdrawn, the royal privilege revoked. The place, however small, that my father’s son might have expected at court was not there. No monies were available for Varfair, not that my uncle cared; he would not have noticed if the encroaching sea devoured the castle so long as his books were safe. I grew up to think all men were as he, and he taught me something of his love for knowledge, which I have never regretted. Our family was always remote and apart but never so in the arts. I was still very young when Uncle Roger began to stir himself in my behalf. One of his contacts was the matchless poet, Thomas Wyatt, still a young man when he and my uncle wrote. He was on a mission for the king in Italy; it was simple enough to add an obscure lad’s name to the rolls of service. When Wyatt died in the next few months, I remained with some of the others to represent England.”