Roger must have felt something similar, for he said, “Doubtless it was an accident, after all. Anything else would be extraordinarily farfetched.”
“Aye. Accidents do happen.” She tried to lighten the mood by teasing him. “Anyway, the only person with a true motive to murder Will was out of the country at the time.”
His mouth twisted. “You mean me? What motive did I have?” He glanced up at the buildings on the hill. “A crumbling stronghold which will take my entire patrimony to restore? A minor title at an insignificant court? Some rocky farmland, a sweep of moors, and a few sheep?”
“In sooth, it does sound paltry when you put it like that.” He was exaggerating, she knew. The barony of Whitcombe included villages and farms with extensive arable lands, a forest full of valuable timber, a great many flocks of sheep that produced good English wool for market, a stone quarry, several mines, and considerable wealth in the form of gold, silver, and precious jewels. Because of her marriage contract with Will, she was well acquainted with the details.
“We might as well accuse you,” he went on. “You didn’t want to wed him. What a fortuitous escape.” He ran his eyes over her in the same lecherous manner he had employed in the church. “Will they hang you, I wonder? By that sweet neck of yours?”
Alexandra abruptly recalled the old lesson of their childhood: you don’t tease Roger unless you’re prepared to be repaid in the same coin.
“If you’d been clever, you’d have waited till you’d got yourself a son,” he went on. “Then you’d have been a rich widow with dower rights, as well as the mother of the heir. That’s what I would have done in your place.”
“I’m not so cold-blooded. And neither are you.”
He just looked at her. She shivered a little. He had been away for years. How could she know what sort of person Roger had become?
They were within hailing distance of the fortress when the outermost gates opened and several people spilled out onto the road. “They’ve seen us. Imagine their faces when they realize the stranger is you.”
“They know it’s me. I sent my party on ahead.”
Of course. A man of his position wouldn’t travel without an entourage. “There’s Alan waiting up by the gate. And this is your father coming out to greet you. Well, my Lord Prodigal, are you ready to enter the lists?”
“Girded for battle, milady.” He gave her a fleeting smile before turning to look at the approaching figure of Richard Trevor, his father. His brother, Alan, and his stepmother, Dorcas, the baron’s second wife, remained behind at the main gate with a crowd of excited servants while the baron advanced alone.
Roger took a deep breath and blew it out audibly. His face was calm no longer. “Body of Christ. My enemies in the Middle Sea would make merry if they could see me now, quaking in my boots because I’m about to reacquaint myself with my wretched father.”
“Quaking?” Alexandra was astonished to hear him confess that he had nerves that could betray him.
“Aye. Do I look as fainthearted as I feel?”
“No, truly, you do not.”
“Then I must be an exceptionally good actor.”
She laughed, delighted with this glimpse of the man behind the mask, this assurance that his strange and eventful life had not robbed him of his essential self. It had, in fact, made him more approachable, more honest. As a boy, he never would have admitted to fear of any kind.
She caught herself stealing a glance at his beautiful long-fingered hands lacing and unlacing themselves as she assured him that his once-formidable father was probably quaking far more than he was. He quirked his eyebrows at her and, for an instant, a current ran between them. His carnal lips curled in a smile.
He is the heir now, she thought once again, and blushed.
“Go on, Roger,” she said quickly to cover her confusion. “Your faithful troops will be right behind you.”
“No, I’ll meet him alone. Give me a few minutes, will you?”
Roger and the baron walked the last few yards toward each other alone, like duelists meeting against the indifferent blue sky. Who spoke first was impossible to determine from the spot where Alexandra watched, but she did see Roger bow slightly, giving his father a token of respect. After a brief exchange, the baron drew his son closer and saluted him on both cheeks, and then they turned and walked together through the gates of Whitcombe Castle.
Chapter 2
Alexandra sat opposite Roger on the family dais in the great hall that evening, watching in fascination as he cut his meat with an ornately carved knife and speared it with a matching fork. Like everyone else at the long trestle table, Alexandra made do with her fingers, using her knife only when a slab of meat proved particularly tough.
“Are you afraid of dirtying your hands?” she asked him, glancing down at her own rather greasy fingers.
He took no offense. “Try it,” he said, handing her the two-pronged fork. “It’s useful for holding down a slippery piece of meat while you carve a few chunks off it. That’s the idea.”
Alexandra laughed as she captured a piece of meat on the tines of the fork and lifted it to her lips. Roger watched her movements intently, his gaze lingering on her mouth, which made her feel a little odd. She passed the fork back to him. “Thanks, but I think I’ll stick to my trusty old fingers.”
He grinned, his eyes alight with merriment. Indeed, he’d been remarkably pleasant-natured all afternoon. He’d spent the hours since his arrival unpacking and giving gifts. He had presented the baron with two intricately knotted Turkey carpets, several casks of wine, and a beautifully bound volume of Aristotle for his library. Alan had received several books, which had pleased him mightily since he fancied himself something of a scholar. Printed books were rare, and Alexandra, who loved books too, frankly envied him.
But she had not been forgotten. Roger had given her two presents which she ordinarily would not have accepted from a man who was not a blood relation: a bolt of sea-green silk and a luminous opal pendant from the Turkish Empire. Lady Dorcas had helped her dress her hair before supper so she could wear the pendant strung on a cord around her neck. The opal sparkled with different colors, mostly blues and violets, but in its deepest heart gleamed a flash of crimson. It rested in a diamond-shaped silver filigree setting. The baroness had also lent her a gown with a bodice that was low enough at the throat to show off the pendant, and Alexandra felt absolutely elegant.
“I knew that would suit you,” Roger had said approvingly when they sat down to eat. “That red spark in its depths reminded me of your hair. Not even ten years and several thousand miles could dull my memory of your fiery curls.”
Although she usually mourned the flamboyance of her dark red tresses, his words made her feel that the color might not be such a curse after all.
Supper had turned out to be an elaborate affair. Instead of taking cold meats in the small family dining room upstairs, the Trevors supped in the cavernous central hall of the keep. The boards on their trestles stretched the entire length of the smoky room, and the entire household, arranged strictly according to their degree, from the baron’s body servants down to the lowliest stableboy, had gathered in Roger’s honor. At the start of the meal, they had all stared with great curiosity at Roger, who rose and made a witty speech expressing his pleasure to be home. He received a rousing cheer when he finished, and Alexandra overheard a number of approving comments, particularly from the women.
The only person who did not seem impressed with Roger was his father. The baron was getting old, Alexandra thought, shooting a glance in his direction. His face was thin beneath the abundant gray hair, and his eyes had lost some of their vividness since his heart seizure the previous winter. The death of his eldest son two months before had been a cruel blow; indeed, the household had been in mourning ever since. This feast in honor of Roger’s homecoming was the first festive occasion that had been celebrated since Will’s death. The baron, though, did not have the look of a man who was taking any j
oy in the reunion.
She wondered what the baron thought of the man his son had become, a man of whom most fathers would have been proud. She had always seen Richard Trevor as a strong, domineering personality, not unlike her own father in his ability to command a situation. Tonight, however, it was Roger whose charisma had everyone transfixed. The baron seemed a paler, dimmer figure in comparison.
The great hall resounded with the noises of hearty eaters toasting each other with homebrewed ale and dogs prowling around the boards, whining for scraps. The cooks had outdone themselves, preparing a veritable feast of boiled beef, roast veal, pigeon pie, rabbit stew, and roast capon. There was fresh bread to accompany the meats, and, for dessert, custards and sugar dulcets. Alexandra had to loosen the laces of the leather girdle that cinched her waist before she was halfway through the third course.
Since it was difficult to make oneself heard during the meal, the conversation lagged until the hall began to clear of the servants who had to return to their evening chores. As the kitchen helpers removed the plates and threw bones to the waiting dogs, the Trevors moved their chairs around the enormous stone hearth where they could finish their wine in comfort. Seizing her chance, Alexandra lost no time in trying to draw Roger into a discussion of politics.
“Did you come through London? What news is there of a possible war with France?”
“None that I know of, thank God.” His voice was clipped and short. “Why? Are you filled with patriotic fervor for your beloved country?”
She shook her head. “Goodness, no. Nobody that I know wants a war. Why should good Englishmen march off to their deaths at the whim of Mary Tudor’s Spanish husband?”
Roger stared at her lazily under hooded eyelids. “I’ve heard that Sir Charles, your father, is at court; that he is one of the queen’s chief advisers.”
“Yes, I believe that’s true,” she answered with some reserve. Her father’s perpetual absence was a sore subject with both Alexandra and her mother. Years before, Lady Douglas had taken on the task of administering the Westmor estates herself while her husband pursued his ambitions at court. “Unfortunately, we don’t see very much of my father.”
Watching her intently, he went on, “Surely his position requires that you remain loyal to the queen? As I understand it, you, at least, are not a heretic.” He glanced toward his father, who was. It was the first specific reference to the baron’s adoption of the Reformed beliefs. Francis Lacklin was not present that evening. He had gone to visit a nearby manor for the day. No one seemed to know when he would return.
“The court is far away, and anyway, I am loyal,” Alexandra said. “If the queen were determined to execute everyone who disagreed with her policies, she’d be obliged to send a goodly portion of her country folk to the stake.”
“The burnings that Mary Tudor has encouraged are a travesty of justice,” said the baron. “This is England, not Spain. We want no Inquisition here.”
Roger took a long quaff of wine. “Are you one of those, Father, who would like to see the queen deposed and her Protestant sister set upon the throne?”
“Certainly I pray for the continuing health and safety of Princess Elizabeth.”
“Mary Tudor could be queen for years; in fact, she might long outlive her sister. And she is, by the grace of God, our queen. What you think about her is your own affair, but since I arrived here this afternoon, I’ve heard treason being carelessly uttered in every quarter. It’s dangerous. In London people are burned for such talk.”
“If a man cannot speak his conscience within his own walls—”
“If there are spies within your walls? What then? You can’t trust everyone in such a large household.”
“Can I not?” the baron roared. “Perhaps your years in the treacherous East have made you overly suspicious. None of my people would ever betray me.”
Roger pursed his lips in annoyance, and Alexandra squirmed in her seat, wishing to high heaven that she had not started this discussion. It seemed to her that Roger was merely seeking to warn his father, but the baron took his words as an insult.
For as long as she could remember, Roger and his father had been at odds. They seemed to bring out the worst in each other. Roger had been a headstrong, difficult child, prone to temper tantrums and misadventures of all kinds. Whenever he got into trouble, his father’s idea of discipline had been to beat him severely. Instead of teaching the boy a lesson, this treatment had only hardened Roger into deeper forms of rebellion.
To make matters worse, when Roger was fourteen, the baron had threatened to divorce his wife. Roger adored his lively, passionate mother, and was devastated when he learned his father’s intentions. Divorce was no simple matter, but King Henry Tudor had managed it, and throughout the country, other unhappy husbands were encouraged to try their own luck with the ecclesiastical courts.
When Lady Catherine unexpectedly died, Roger had concluded that, rather than struggle for years to obtain a divorce that was unlikely to be granted, his father had pushed his wife over a cliff. There was no evidence to support this, and nobody but Roger had ever seriously believed it. Indeed, it was presumed that she had committed suicide, although that suspicion, of course, had never been admitted publically. The baron’s quick remarriage to the young and lovely Dorcas had increased the antagonism between father and son, and after a domestic battle of epic proportions, Roger had left home to begin the odyssey that had kept him out of England ever since.
“What possible advantage can come of supporting the Reformers?” Roger persisted. “Particularly now that Mary has come to the throne? Back in the days when everyone was adapting their beliefs to suit the changing moods of old King Harry, you seemed uninterested in matters of faith.”
“My position has evolved,” the baron said stiffly.
“So be it. But surely caution is required. It’s mostly townsfolk who have gone to the stake, but no one is immune to the queen’s justice.”
“I will do as my conscience demands.”
“Despite the risk to your family?”
“Ah.” The baron directed a scathing glance at his son. “You are concerned about your inheritance, perhaps? Now that you stand to gain something from your family ties, you wish to be certain I don’t squander the estate and disgrace the title before they can be handed on?”
Roger expelled a harsh breath. “We misunderstand each other.” He refilled his wine cup and stared into the fire.
“Enough of England and her dreary troubles,” Dorcas said. Smiling pleasantly at her stepson, she went on, “Tell us something of your life in the Mediterranean. That is what we are all longing to hear.”
“I fear my experiences in the importing and exporting of goods will hold little interest for a lady such as you.” Roger was taking frequent sips of his wine, and his easy manner of earlier in the day seemed to have vanished. He’d been moody as a lad, Alexandra remembered. He hadn’t changed in that respect.
“What we really want to know about is life in a Turkish harem,” Alexandra said. “Is it true that the sultan has several hundred concubines at his beck and call? How does he decide which one he wants on a given night?”
“Alexandra!” Dorcas chided. But even the baron looked slightly amused, and Alan leaned forward as if eager to hear the answer to these important questions.
Roger seemed to relax. He gave her a slow, mischievous grin. “Suleyman, the sultan of the Turkish empire, has for many years been famous for his fidelity to his wife, so his concubines must lead tedious lives. As to the particulars of life in the seraglio, I’m afraid I have no information to share. I could probably arrange for you to find out firsthand, though, if you so desire.”
Alexandra was unsubdued. “By selling me as a harem slave?”
He held out his wine cup, and without thinking, she reached for the jug and refilled it. He winked at her. “You anticipate my needs very well, Alix. Perhaps I’ll keep you for myself.”
Alexandra saw the baron nod in satisf
action, a gesture that Roger did not catch. Alan’s face tightened, and Alexandra blushed. But before she could think of an appropriate retort, Roger’s expression changed. He was looking over her shoulder into the gloom of the great hall, and his body went taut.
Alexandra turned her head. Francis Lacklin, fresh from preaching the Word of God, had just come into the great hall.
“Good evening,” he said. “Please don’t interrupt your conversation on my account.”
Roger stared at Lacklin, his fingers tight around his wine cup, his face a mask. Alexandra glanced back and forth between them, much struck by the palpable tension. Roger knew Lacklin, he’d told her. She had meant to ask him how, but in all the excitement of his return, the subject had slipped her mind.
The baron rose immediately and embraced Lacklin, greeting him in a far more friendly manner than he had received his own son. In fact, as she saw them standing together, Alexandra had the odd sensation that it was Francis Lacklin, not Roger, who truly belonged here.
Lacklin bowed courteously to them all, saying, “I’ve heard the happy tidings, my lord.” He turned back to Roger, who had remained seated, his long legs stretched languidly out in front of him.
As the baron began an introduction, Roger said, “We are already acquainted.” His eyes met Lacklin’s. “You do remember me?”
Like Roger’s, Lacklin’s face was controlled, revealing no emotion. After an infinitesimal pause, he replied, “Of course.”
“How many years has it been?”
“Several,” was Lacklin’s bland reply.
Roger glanced at his father, who seemed both puzzled and annoyed at this exchange.
“You know each other?” Alan said, expressing the surprise of them all. “But how?”
“We once shared an interest in the sea,” said Roger. “In fact, Francis taught me much of what was later vital for me to know. We served aboard the same ship.”
Sweet Jesu! Alexandra pondered this intelligence in astonishment. The pious Mr. Lacklin had been a mariner?
Linda Barlow Page 3
