Alexandra stabbed in the last hairpin and stepped back. “That’s the best I can do.”
Lady Douglas turned her head from side to side, critically surveying her reflection. “It will have to do. My looks are fading, I fear.” She sighed. “Not that it matters, of course. Be thankful you’re not a beauty, child. Better by far a man loves you for your good sense than for your looks.”
Her mother had been a famous beauty once, everybody said so. Now she rarely saw her husband, and if what Roger had said about Sir Charles Douglas was true, her father was no faithful husband. But she could not bear to think about that.
Alexandra glanced at her own reflection. She knew she was no beauty. She didn’t possess the blue-gray eyes, the blond hair, or the milky white skin that the poets had declared ideal. Her forehead was too high, and the summer sun had brought out all her freckles. But her features were regular, at least: her eyes big and green, her nose straight, and her mouth generous.
Alan had told her that she had a tolerably nice smile. She grinned at herself, considering. There were herbs she could use to bleach the freckles, and plant dyes that would darken her eyebrows and thicken her lashes. Her friend Merwynna, the wisewoman of Westmor Forest, dispensed such items all the time; next to love potions, beauty enhancers were the most sought-after mixtures the wisewoman prepared. Alexandra had learned the recipes long ago, but she had never bothered to use them. It seemed foolish to go to all that trouble when she would never be able to do anything about her most lamentable feature, her screaming red hair.
“Your hair is still so lovely,” she said, wondering why her mother insisted on pinning the golden tresses up and hiding them beneath a trim linen cap. “Why couldn’t I have inherited yours, instead of Father’s?”
“Fortune, my dear. At least you’ll be noticed in a crowd, which might prove useful at court.”
But Alexandra was beginning to wonder if she would ever get to court. At Will’s burial, her father had announced that he was going to find a place for her there forthwith, but there had been no word from him since. Sir Charles was not known for keeping promises to his family.
“Roger likes my hair. His tastes must be jaded from his life in the East.”
“Roger this, Roger that. I’m weary of hearing about that young troublemaker. I suppose that’s why you’re so eager to be off this morning. You’re going to Whitcombe to admire the fascinating Roger?”
“No. I’m going to visit Merwynna. I imagine you’ve heard more about Roger from servants’ gossip than you have from me. I’ve seen very little of him.”
“He’s too busy antagonizing his father to have much time for you. He has already succeeded in driving that nice Francis Lacklin off the estate. He’s leaving tomorrow, I understand. I do wish you would be more courteous to Mr. Lacklin. At poor Will’s burial you were positively rude.”
Alexandra, too, had heard that Lacklin had decided to return to London. She certainly wouldn’t be sorry to see the last of him, but Roger’s words of that disillusioning first night kept repeating themselves inside her head: If you really expect any assistance from me, you will leave Whitcombe.
She had told no one what she had overheard. She felt torn: for all her dislike of the fanaticism of Queen Mary, whose ecclesiastical courts were burning heretics at the stake, she still found treason shocking, and Roger’s casual mention of a plot to murder the queen profoundly disturbing. If Francis Lacklin seriously intended such a crime, he deserved to hang. But her mind balked at the idea of hanging Roger.
In retrospect, she was unable to determine how deeply Roger was involved. He was not, it seemed, a heretic. He had expressed nothing but contempt for his friend’s religious beliefs. As for assassinating the queen, his words about that had sounded mocking, too. True, these were dark and violent times, and there were always whispers of new plots against the queen and her unpopular Spanish marriage, but rebellions had been attempted before, without success. However much the English people disagreed with royal policies, she didn’t think they would condone overthrowing their monarch.
Roger knew that, surely. He was clever and politically astute. Yet he had apparently agreed to help Lacklin in some manner. What Alexandra could not fathom was why. Roger had criticized his father for allying with the Reformers, so why would he do so himself? What was the attraction? Did he thrive on danger and intrigue, or was he the sort of man who committed treason simply for the sport of it?
One thing was certain: Roger Trevor had not dealt honestly with any of them. His years away from home had turned him into a hard and violent man, a consummate actor who used his charm to manipulate and deceive. At least, this is what she kept telling herself, for despite her knowledge, she was finding it difficult not to like her old friend Roger.
He had returned her pendant the morning after his homecoming with a note that read, “Forgive my unmannerly treatment of you last night, if you can. As you saw for yourself, I was vilely drunk. Let’s not quarrel, Alix. Please accept my gift with my apologies.” There was no signature, just a scrawled R. At breakfast she had assured him she would gladly accept both, and that day and every day subsequently, he had treated her with grace and good humor.
There had been no further lecherous advances. She had tried, without complete success, to put the memory of his touch out of her mind. She wore his pendant nearly every day. She had secured it on a firmly fastened chain instead of a cord that might again come untied. She loved it and did not wish to lose it.
There was a knocking at the door just as Lucy Douglas finished adjusting her headdress. “That must be Priscilla,” she told Alexandra. “She’s here to do some needlework for me.”
“I’ll let her in,” Alexandra said as she opened the chamber door to the young gentlewoman from a small neighboring estate. Priscilla Martin had recently borne a son, who had died after only a week of life. Eight or nine months before, she had lost her husband, who had left her with a spate of unpaid debts. Pris was forced to supplement her meager income by means of her skillful needle.
Alexandra welcomed the widow kindly, but Pris responded with her usual reserve. They were close in age, but Pris had persistently rebuffed the amiable overtures Alexandra had made toward her. Alexandra had never understood why.
“‘Tis good to see you, Pris,” she said now. “How are you? Are things any less difficult on your estate? Have you managed to straighten out the tangle of Mr. Martin’s affairs?”
“No,” said Pris. She raised her eyes to Alexandra’s, and something angry and resentful lingered in the depths of those cool blue eyes. “My husband’s debts have not melted away, if that’s what you mean.”
“No, of course not. How could they?” Alexandra said quickly. She had been tactless. She always seemed to say the wrong thing to Priscilla. She felt clumsy and awkward around her, too. Pris had soft dark hair, an elegant figure, and she dressed herself with style. The fabrics she was forced to use to fashion her attire might not be costly, but her skill at dressmaking produced kirtles and gowns of such subtle allure that men always seemed to notice her, even though she was in mourning. Alexandra felt certain she would escape her debts by marrying again.
“Forgive me if I’ve offended you, Pris. ‘Twas not my intention, honestly.”
Pris’ eyes seemed to soften, and for an instant she looked almost friendly; then a cloud came over her again. She acknowledged Alexandra’s words with nothing more than a nod.
Alexandra turned back to her mother, who was still primping in the mirror. “May I go now, Mother?”
“Yes, but kindly don’t be gone all day. You could at least return in time for the midday meal. Sit down, Priscilla. You look most fair, as usual; my daughter would benefit if she paid attention to the way you move, dress, and speak. Alexandra…”
Alexandra had nearly escaped. She reluctantly turned and looked back.
“I’ve just remembered: see that you discourage your outlandish friends from loitering around the kitchens. That halfwit boy from the
forest has been coming around and bothering the cooks.”
“Ned, you mean? Coming here?”
“Looking for you, I presume, while you’re out gallivanting around. He frightens the servants. If I see him here again, I’ll have him whipped.”
“Oh, Mother, have some pity. He’s a poor outcast whom everybody hates and fears, but he’s not dangerous.”
“Isn’t he indeed? I wonder.” Her mother reached into a cupboard and pulled out something. “Look what I took away from him yesterday. Look at this and tell me he’s not dangerous.”
It was a dagger. Rather, it was the hilt of a dagger with most of the blade snapped off. Her mother held it with some distaste on the flat of her hand.
“‘Tis yours, I suppose? I gathered that the agitated young fool was trying to return it to you. Really, daughter, I’m astonished that you could let such an object come into the hands of that madman. It’s broken, but what’s left of the blade is jagged and sharp. God only knows what he might have done with it had I not taken it away.”
Alexandra took the dagger from her mother and turned it over curiously. The inch that was left of the blade was dull and rusty, but the carving on the handle was elaborate. She rubbed at it, trying to get some of the grime off the unusual hilt. She wondered what it was made of–not metal, but a smoother, softer material, like bone. It looked vaguely familiar, although she certainly didn’t own anything like it. “‘Tisn’t mine. What made you think he wanted to give it to me?”
“Not yours? Really I shudder to think of it—a big strong fellow like that with half his wits and Lord knows what unrestrained lusts and murderous intents, and you going blithely around, alone in the forest, never even taking a groom.”
“Did he ask for me specifically?” Her mother had no true fear of Ned, she knew. Lady Douglas was exaggerating as a means of promoting one of her favorite themes: the worthlessness and unreliability of most members of the male sex.
“How could he? He can’t even speak. Oh, he signaled some sort of nonsense. He seemed frightened—Lord knows why. I assumed he was looking for you. I told him I would give you the knife, which was the only way I could rid the kitchens of him. Even after I threatened to whip him, he continued lurking about. As I say, it wasn’t the first time.” She glanced at Priscilla Martin, who was listening to this exchange with an inscrutable expression on her exquisite face. “I’m certain you don’t associate with such riffraff, Pris.”
Pris murmured agreement, averting her eyes. Alexandra had noticed, though, that the widow had taken a good hard look at the broken dagger. “How long has Ned been looking for me?” she asked her mother.
“For the past few days. Very furtive he is, too, this Ned, appearing and disappearing like a demon.”
Alexandra remembered the fear Ned had exhibited in front of Roger near the ditch where Will had fallen. She hadn’t seen the lad since. “Mother, if he comes again today, will you ask him to wait for me? I’ll be back by noon, I promise.”
“I would prefer that you had nothing further to do with a knife-wielding halfwit,” Lady Douglas insisted, but when Alexandra gave her a pleading look, she relented. “Oh, very well. Though why you make friends with these waifs and ne’er-do-wells, I’ll never understand.”
Alexandra stuck the broken dagger into her girdle and thanked her mother. Lucy Douglas could be a difficult woman at times, but Alexandra knew that although her tongue was sharp, there was little she would not do for her only child.
*
Ten minutes later Alexandra was outside, walking briskly along the flower-lined path that led through the hedgerows to the freedom of the moors. She had a pack slung over one shoulder filled with warm bread, fruit, cheese, meat pies, and homebrewed ale. This was her weekly offering for the ancient wisewoman, Merwynna. It was a pleasant day, with a breeze rolling through the heather. This was a nice change after what had been a gray and stormy summer, with rains so heavy that the harvest was threatened. But today the sky was so intensely blue it almost hurt her eyes to look at it.
As she slipped through the hedges, she glanced back at the rectangular stone buildings that comprised her family home. Westmor Abbey was different in appearance from the imposing, if crumbling Whitcombe Castle. A former abbey, it stood in a grassy valley, and the construction was more modern than Whitcombe’s. The grounds were replete with gardens, once tended by the monks who had lived there prior to Henry VIII’s dissolution of the monasteries. The property had been presented to Alexandra’s grandfather by the king, and her father, Sir Charles, had inherited it upon his father’s death a year later. Alexandra had been but a babe when they had moved in. Westmor Abbey was the only home she had ever known.
Shutting the gate carefully behind her, Alexandra struck out through the knee-deep moor grasses toward the woodland. The smell of the heather delighted her. She let out a spontaneous laugh and pulled her skirts halfway up her legs so she could feel the sensuous brush of wildflowers against her bare skin. She skipped for a few steps, feeling full of energy and joy. What a wonderful day to be alive!
She tramped happily over several hills before coming back to the track that led into the woods. As the path dipped down into the trees, the blue sky vanished, obscured by the ancient forest’s canopy of green. Unlike some woodlands, Westmor Forest did not begin gradually with a few scrubby trees; as soon as she crossed its boundaries, she entered a different world, a land of darkness, secrets, power. The paths were few and twisted, as if the forest tried to obliterate them as quickly as they were laid down. Branches caught at her clothes and long fingers of green brushed at her face.
Few people knew the forest as well as Alexandra. From childhood she had explored its farthest reaches, aided by an excellent sense of direction and an almost mystical reverence for its gnarled old trees. She felt at peace here, and she believed that the forest knew her and accepted her as one of its own.
After a lengthy trek, she entered an ancient grove of oaks whose trunks were thicker than Alexandra was tall. Beneath their boughs, the air was cool. Although the trees were well separated, their leaves were so concentrated that little direct sunshine could penetrate to the acorn-scattered ground.
Sometimes Alexandra would sit down on the moss floor to rest and dream, but today she did not intend to linger. She was walking rapidly, singing a merry ballad, and enjoying the vigorous exercise of her hike, when a movement ahead in the gloom caught her attention. A lull in the breeze enabled her to hear the sharp metallic clash of steel striking steel. For a moment she could not identify a sound that seemed so foreign to the place. Curious, she walked toward the shadows circling one another beneath the vaulting branches. Two men were doing battle there. Each was wielding a sword.
For a second Alexandra thought they must be apparitions playing out some ancient feud. Two men dueling in Westmor Forest? In the heart of the woodland, not far from Merwynna’s cottage? It was outrageous. She advanced upon them as if she were a defender of the place.
In the next moment she realized who they were and what they were doing. She stopped, but it was too late: this time they had seen her. She visualized the gloomy hall, the low fire, the voices she had not wanted to hear, although she had listened. She seemed doomed to intrude upon them, whether she liked it or not.
They put up their weapons and Roger waved. There was nothing to do but go on.
“Good morning to you,” she said brightly when she reached them. “Don’t stop. How often do I get the chance to see two masters at swordplay? Who’s winning?”
Roger and Francis Lacklin exchanged a look. They were both stripped to short breeches and hose—naked to the waist—and they were sweating. Each held a slim practice sword, and a supply of rapiers stood leaning against the trunk of the nearest tree. They were unusual-looking weapons, slimmer than she was used to, not at all in the English style. She wondered if they were Turkish, Venetian, or Florentine. The rest of their things—clothes, a couple of knapsacks, and a flagon of wine—were also piled there bene
ath the tree.
“He is, as usual,” Roger answered with a genial nod at his companion. His hair was plastered down across his forehead; with one hand he reached up and pushed it aside. There were beads of sweat on his throat, too, and on his wide bare chest. Alexandra stared at them, fascinated, while his glance took in the pack on her arm. “What are you doing here? Are you on an errand of mercy to some woodland cot?”
Alexandra looked into his eyes in a futile attempt to take her mind off his smooth, sun-browned skin with its dusting of silky dark hair. He had beautiful muscles on his chest and belly. Indeed, she was certain she had never seen such beautiful muscles before. His arms, too. His shoulders. “I’m going to visit Merwynna,” she managed to say.
“Merwynna? You mean that old witch? God’s blood, is she still alive? She must be nearly eighty.”
Roger had been friendly with Merwynna too, she remembered. At least until the day he had gone to Merwynna and demanded that she put a spell on his father, who had beaten him bloody for some childish prank. Merwynna had bound up his wounds but refused him the spell, which had angered Roger. He had insisted afterward that she was no true witch at all.
“She’s old, but as spry as ever. I see her often. My way lies through this grove. What are you doing here?”
She asked this even though she already knew the answer. Francis Lacklin was leaving Whitcombe tomorrow. He and Roger must have wanted to be alone to discuss their treasonous plans.
She expected Roger’s glib tongue to answer her, but it was Lacklin who said, “He’s been after me for days to prove I could still cut him to ribbons, so I’m finally obliging, even though I’m out of practice, while he’s fresh from fighting Saracens in the Middle Sea.”
Linda Barlow Page 6
