Roger paced the cottage, making no effort to comfort her. Alan stirred restlessly but did not wake. Sitting alone and cold in the middle of her mattress, she wept until she was empty.
The fire had died down. When at last there was no sound from her except an occasional sniff, Roger took several logs and built it up again. As the new wood caught and the heat blazed up, she raised her head and found that he was watching her, his expression determinedly free of emotion, except for his dark eyes, which somehow seemed to mirror her own agony.
“You’re right, of course,” she said. “My behavior today has been unforgivable. I ought to be thanking you for your restraint. Most men wouldn’t have had such scruples.”
She tried to say this in an easy, generous manner, but she was more hurt by his rejection than she could bear to admit. She wished she were a child again, solid in the conviction that there was no other girl in the world he loved more than he loved her, his oldest, dearest friend.
“I’m sorry for tempting you. Although I don’t suppose it was really all that much of a temptation. I know I can’t compare with the sort of women you’re used to. I don’t say that in bitterness; I’m content with what I am. It’s just that sometimes I can’t help feeling wretched about being so unpolished and,”—she came up with his own expression—“undebauched.”
He shook his head slowly, but did not speak. After a moment he sat down with his back to the fire, pulling his stool a little closer to her, though still far enough away to make her feel as if there were a moat between them.
“We used to be the same, even though you were older. But now you’ve gone so far beyond me. I don’t know you anymore. Still, I meant it, and I’ll never take it back: I’ve always loved you, Roger, and I always will.”
His eyes closed and his shoulders slumped as if he were bending under a heavy burden. “Then you must learn how little I deserve it. I want you to understand why you can never be part of my life.”
She stiffened at the word “never.”
“Listen, Alix. My brother Will was an upright nobleman whose conscience was so clean he probably had to make up sins to confess to the parish priest. A catalog of my sins, on the other hand, would send the average cleric into a reel. You’re a sweet, bright, and honorable young woman. I’m a rogue, bound for hell.” He hesitated, then continued, “‘Twould be an offense against nature to wed you.”
“But—”
“Don’t interrupt. Except for brother-killing, there’s no crime I haven’t committed. You want to know what happened to the last young gentlewoman whose destiny crossed with mine? I killed her. No, don’t be so quick to shake your head in doubt. You thought me capable of killing a few hours ago.”
“In battle, perhaps, or in a duel. Not a woman. Not by murder.”
“She’s dead, whether by murder or not.” His voice was heavy with guilt. “Her name was Celestine de Montreau, and she was a French noblewoman, the sister of a friend of mine. At least, he used to be a friend of mine. Now he’s after my lifeblood.”
Celestine! It was the name mentioned by the Voice. Celestial Celestine.
“She was a passenger on my ship last summer in the Mediterranean, under my protection, and I bedded her.” Roger’s voice hardened. “She was willing, indeed, eager, but Geoffrey didn’t believe that; he thought she was innocent. In fact, she was no virgin. Still, she was but seventeen. Younger than you. I should never have indulged myself with her.”
After a brief pause, he continued, “She fell in love with me, or so she claimed. But I tired of her, as I always do. I grew impatient with her, angry. We had some nasty fights. I have a wrathful temper, Alix, as you certainly know. I try to control it, but sometimes I fail.” He lapsed into silence, staring into the fire. He seemed to be looking into the past, and there was a vulnerability about him that moved her deeply. She didn’t believe he’d killed her, but whatever had happened to Celestine, Roger had suffered intensely for it. Was this the reason for his black moods, his world-weariness?
Alexandra clasped herself tightly in her blanket as it occurred to her that he was right to make light of her declaration of love. He was so much more experienced than she. He had lived a life she could barely conceive of. He was a man who needed more than simple maidenly love. He needed tolerance, wisdom and strength in a woman. He needed forgiveness; he longed for peace.
“How did she die?”
He shook his head. “I’ve told you enough. Suffice it to say that she might have been alive today if I’d been able to give her some of the love she offered me.”
“Is giving love so impossible for you, then?”
“Yes. I’ve looked inside myself and seen a black and heartless void at the center of my being, with nothing wrapped around it that’s not composed of selfishness, anger and pride.” He shifted uneasily. “Not a pleasant vision, I assure you.”
Alexandra stared into the fire. What did she see when she looked into her own soul? she wondered, trying to understand him. She saw a tiny star of light, burning steadily there in the silence.
“I am sorry for you, Roger.” To herself she added: But it’ll take more than pity to turn me away from you.
Chapter 12
Alexandra awakened in the morning to the sound of horses’ hooves outside. She sat up and saw that Roger had risen from the blanket he’d spread out on the floor on the other side of Alan.
“Who’s that?” she whispered.
“How do I know? I’d get dressed if I were you.”
She snatched a woolen gown from Merwynna’s shelves and pulled it on. It was more substantial than the tunic she had worn last night. Since she was considerably taller than Merwynna, the garment was still too short, but at least it had long sleeves and a high neckline. No sooner had she smoothed it down over her body than a loud banging began on the cottage door.
She and Roger exchanged a look. His hair was in his eyes; he pushed it back. His face was dark with the overnight growth of his beard. “I fell asleep,” he said sheepishly. He found his boots and his now-dry doublet and pulled them on. “What time is it, I wonder.”
“Well past dawn,” she guessed from the quality of the light. She leaned over to check on Alan. He still slept deeply, but his color was good. “I hope our search party hasn’t been out in the storm all night while we’ve been resting here.”
“Open in the queen’s name!” somebody shouted.
“That’s not our search party,” said Roger, frowning. “That’s a London accent if I ever heard one.”
“Break it down,” a calmer voice commanded.
“Oh sweet Jesu. It’s my father.”
Roger buckled on his sword belt and ran a hand through his untidy hair. “Your father. Lovely, Alix. That’s all I need. I don’t even have a sword to defend myself against the inevitable charge of virgin-snatching. I thought he was at court.”
“We heard yesterday that he was on his way here. The door’s not locked,” she called, rushing forward to open it.
“You’d better talk fast, my girl.”
She threw him a smile. “At that, I’m an expert.”
As she flung open the door, three burly men-at-arms stumbled shoulder-first into the cottage. Sir Charles Douglas was right behind them, a hefty-red-bearded man with the insignias of his court office stitched onto his richly wrought sleeves. He was followed by another three soldiers.
“Hello, Father,” Alexandra said with aplomb, stepping into the thick of the sword-armed retainers to greet him. He grabbed her and pulled her into a fierce embrace. “Welcome home,” she added from deep in his arms.
“My dear little lassie, we’ve been afraid for your life!”
“Fiddlesticks, I’m perfectly safe. ‘Tis Alan we were worried about. He broke his leg and needed warmth and shelter. He’s safe, but the baron must be notified at once.”
Sir Charles kept hold of his daughter while he looked from the unconscious boy on the pallet to the scruffy-looking young man who was nonchalantly sitting on a stoo
l before the hearth. Alexandra followed his gaze and wished that Roger would take the trouble to appear a little more respectful. Her father was accustomed to a certain deference.
“You remember Roger, of course?”
Sir Charles made a gesture and his men surrounded Roger, their weapons directed at his body. Alexandra noticed an almost imperceptible stiffening of his arms and legs, a clenching of his un-bandaged hand, but he did not move. “This is convivial. ‘Tis a pleasure to meet you once again, too.”
“You have dishonored my daughter,” said Douglas in a tone Alexandra had never heard from him before. He had drawn his own sword; his hand was trembling. “I see no reason not to kill you on the spot.”
“Father, please! We were stranded here with Alan. Roger had a crack on the head and he fell asleep. There’s been no dishonor, and no harm done.”
“Indeed?” Alexandra could feel her father regarding her peasant’s gown, bare feet, and loose long hair. Roger looked no more formal in his open doublet, rumpled shirt and breeches, and baggy hose. At least he’d put his boots on. She blushed. Her father’s men were staring openly at her, and giving each other significant looks.
“They don’t believe you, love,” said Roger. “My reputation for lechery is apparently more convincing than yours for honesty and virtue.”
Vaguely guilty over her not-so-virtuous behavior during the night, Alexandra lifted her chin and said, “I demand the respect of being believed.” She marched up to the most insolent-looking man-at-arms and jerked the sword hilt right out of his hand. His mouth dropped in astonishment, but when he belatedly jumped forward to retrieve his weapon, she was directing the point of it at his chest.
“I will defend my honor against anyone who seeks to impugn it,” Alexandra declared.
Roger buried his face in his hands and laughed, a loud, merry laugh that reminded her of how very much she loved him.
Sir Charles, who was apparently well-acquainted with his daughter’s mettle, cursed his careless retainer and ordered him outside. “By your own account, this man is a murderer,” he said to Alexandra, drawing papers from the inside of his padded doublet. “Yet after spending a night in his company you defend him. You impugn your own honor, daughter, by such a contradiction. I demand an explanation.”
Alexandra recognized her own handwriting on the notes. Molly must have given her fanciful speculations about Will’s death to her parents. She cast a glance at Roger, who appeared to be making a valiant attempt to control his hilarity. “Remember yesterday when I told you I’d left papers detailing my suspicions? Papers to be read in the event of my death?”
“A bluff. No?”
“No.” She turned to her father. “I’m not dead, am I? Those papers were sealed, and ought not to have been opened.”
“You vanish from a sickbed leaving behind a cryptic note about your possible demise and don’t expect us to read it? Your mother’s at her wits’ end. When I arrived home last night the entire valley was in an uproar. One brother was dead—murdered, it was now suggested; another brother had disappeared; and you, despite your allegations, had blithely ridden off with the murderer and failed to return. We’ve all been sick with fear.”
“Come on, Douglas. You don’t seriously think I murdered my brother.”
“It was a mistake,” added Alexandra.
Sir Charles glared at both of them. “It all sounded damnably plausible to me, particularly after one of the Westmor grooms came tearing home with a wild story about the two of you disappearing into thin air on Thorncroft Overhang.”
Jacky, thought Alexandra. Blast the boy!
“We searched the area and found the body of the halfwit, Ned, or whatever his name was. We also found a sword, later identified as Roger’s, stained with what we believed to be your lifeblood—was that a mistake too?”
He addressed Roger, shaking the papers at him. “Your father says you corrupt everything you touch. What have you done to her, to turn her into your ally? I don’t care if you’ve murdered ten brothers, but if you’ve tainted my daughter, I’ll kill you with my own hands.”
Roger leapt to his feet. Five swords immediately rose toward him. “I haven’t harmed your precious daughter. If you believe me guilty of a crime, you’ll have to bring me before a duly appointed magistrate. If you’re not prepared to do so, I suggest you call off your thugs before I lose my temper.”
“I am a duly appointed magistrate,” Douglas informed him. “I arrest you in the name of the queen.”
“Oh Christ,” said Roger softly. The look he gave Alexandra was a mixture of annoyance and forbearance. And perhaps–even still–a touch of mirth. “Put that weapon down and defend me with the truth, my Amazon. This is your doing.”
“I know.” She was miserable. “Forgive me.”
“Take him,” Douglas ordered his men.
When one of them pulled out wrist irons, Roger grimaced and said, “That won’t be necessary, dammit,” but the man closed in on him while another grabbed Roger’s arms from behind and tried to hold him.
“Don’t!” Alexandra sensed the coming explosion from the look in Roger’s eyes. It was too late. Roger whirled on the man behind him and struck him in the throat. As he reeled backwards, Roger high-kicked him in the head, and he slumped to the floor unconscious. It happened so fast that the others were paralyzed for an instant; then they all jumped forward. Hands tightening on her purloined weapon, Alexandra too would have leapt into the fray, had her father not seized and held her.
“He’s hurt! They’ll kill him!”
“I doubt it,” said Charles as Roger flipped one of the men over his shoulder and snatched his weapon to defend himself against the other three. One gamely tried to engage him while Roger knocked the sword out of the hand of another. The third began to edge toward the hearth to get in back of the prisoner. Sparring with the others, Roger ignored him until he was out of sight, then unexpectedly twisted and kicked the man hard in the groin. The unfortunate soldier screamed, fell backward upon some of the smoldering coals of last night’s fire, and shrieked again.
A cursing armsman rushed at Roger with his sword swinging, but his quarry ducked out of range, his sword held ready to defend himself. With his free hand Roger grabbed a jar from Merwynna’s herb shelves. “This is acid, and someone is about to get it in his face.” He glanced over at Sir Charles. “Are you going to call them off, or does your desire for entertainment extend to watching the death or disfigurement of your men?”
“I’m admiring your ingenuity. One unarmed, disheveled man with a bandage on his hand efficiently dealing with five soldiers. How often does one get to see such a spectacle? Ten to one there’s no acid in that jar.”
“Shall I fling it at Alexandra, then?”
“No,” said her father, trying to thrust her in back of him. She wouldn’t go. He barked an order at his men, who retreated slightly. They were all swearing under their breaths, and Alexandra could tell from their faces that they’d like nothing better than to crush this young man who’d made such a fool of them, and kill him if they could.
“What the devil do you intend to do?” Douglas asked. “What we want from you is an explanation. If you’re really not guilty of any crime, you’ll give us one.”
“I’ve no objection to answering Alix’s ridiculous charges; in fact, there are one or two points about my brother’s death that I would like clarified. But I refuse to be manhandled or clapped into irons. You have my word that I will not attempt to flee.”
Douglas seemed to consider. Alexandra noted the way his shrewd eyes assessed his adversary. She thought she recognized a spark of admiration for the man who, as a boy, had been the closest thing he’d had to a son. “Very well.”
Roger unstoppered the jar and poured some pungent ointment into his hands, then rubbed a little on his sweating face and neck. Alexandra felt her father’s big body relax.
“And I wish to hear no more in the way of insults to Alexandra’s honor. I have not relieved her o
f her maidenhead, much though I might have been tempted.” He gave her a bracing smile as he spoke. “You have my solemn word on it.”
Charles looked back and forth between them, saying, “I pray God you speak the truth.”
Alexandra was a little surprised at his warmth. Her father spent so much time away that she sometimes doubted he cared very much about her. But he seemed relieved to hear that she had not been villainously raped.
“We do,” she confirmed.
“You’d better,” said her father.
*
Two hours later they were all assembled in the great hall at Whitcombe—Roger, Alexandra, her father, his father, Dorcas, assorted men-at-arms, the baron’s physician, and, sitting quietly near the hearth, Priscilla Martin. “What’s she doing here?” Alexandra asked her father. “I thought this was meant to be a private inquiry.”
“Richard has insisted upon her presence. I don’t know why. Sit down, Alexandra. And don’t speak unless you’re spoken to, if that is possible.”
Alexandra collapsed on a bench, feeling weary and depressed. She had slept very little during the night, kept awake by her awareness of Roger’s body stretched out on his blanket only a few feet away. He hadn’t touched her again, and on the long trek home through the forest this morning, he’d ignored her. She felt like a patient who’s just been diagnosed with the plague.
Alan had been put to bed. Master Theobald, the baron’s physician, had expressed his doubts over the job she’d done of setting the lad’s leg, but he hadn’t ventured to reset it, thank God. He was a thin-faced, lugubrious man who drank too much and always seemed surprised when his patients recovered. A Calvinist like his master, he regarded illness as one of the scourges with which the Lord punished the wicked. If you were taken sick, you had probably done something to deserve it. Alexandra knew this wasn’t true. She herself had been wicked on numerous occasions, yet she was rarely in need of the physician’s dubious arts. Even the cold she’d had yesterday—which by rights ought to be much worse today—seemed mysteriously improved.
Dorcas came to sit beside her. “My poor girl, thank God you’re safe and well. I’ve sent word to your mother. We’ve all been frantic with worry.”
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