Linda Barlow

by Fires of Destiny

  “I knew it. You’re a Saracen raider in disguise. The Muslim hordes are about to conquer all of Europe.”

  One of his hands was still lightly bandaged. The other reached out and gripped her tightly around the wrist. “No jesting, Alexandra. Promise me.”

  “You’re hurting me.”

  His expression hardened. He did look like a Saracen raider with his dark hair, his sun-brown skin, his carnal mouth. The flare of passion in his eyes reminded her that although he might be master of himself, unruly emotions seethed just below the surface. For an instant she wondered, not without some trepidation, how it would be to have those emotions loosed and directed at her.

  “Your promise,” he insisted.

  “You have it.”

  His bruising grip did not relax. He was staring at her in the way she was beginning to recognize, the way he could not entirely control. “There’s one more thing.” He jerked her forward so she stumbled against him. His arms closed around her, and his mouth came down with swift hawk-like violence on her own.

  It was an embrace devoid of tenderness or love; it was anger, frustration, and despair rolled up into a bristled ball; it was selfish and hurtful and a slap in the face at everyone who had ever injured him, herself included. At least, it began that way.

  But the violence faded as she kissed him back, desiring him, accepting him, loving him no matter what he was. In that elemental moment, she was his other half, and his breath was as necessary to her as her own. His cruel little note seemed a futile gesture, a jest, an error. He could not mean it, not when their souls reached for one another just as insistently as their bodies.

  He pushed her limp and melting body back. She lifted her eyes and saw to her surprise that his face was calm, even peaceful. Free of torment and purged of emotion. He smiled at her and bent to kiss her thrice again, once on each eyelid and once on the top of her head.

  “Fare thee well, my fiery Amazon,” he said, running one last lock of red hair through his fingers. Then he turned and walked swiftly into the trees.

  “Roger!” she called after him, but he did not look back.

  She wandered into Merwynna’s cottage and sank down onto a bench. The wisewoman was sitting silently on her stool before the fire. Their eyes met.

  “What time do ye have to be home?”

  “I know not. Before supper. I still have things to pack.”

  “We must be quick about it, then.”

  “You mean you’re going to instruct me?”

  Merwynna’s expression was worried but decided. “It takes no special gift of second sight to foresee trouble between ye and that particular young man,” she said grimly. “I will instruct ye.”

  Alexandra laughed. “Then I defy my fate.”

  *

  Alexandra rose before dawn the next morning and walked over the moors of her native countryside to the chapel where Will was buried. She lit a candle for his soul, and another for the soul of Catherine, his mother. Then she lit a third for Ned, who lay buried in the forest in an unconsecrated grave.

  There in the silence of the church, Alexandra made a vow: “I will turn my face away from death and toward life, but I will not forget you, you whom I have failed to help and failed to love and failed to understand. If wrong has been done you, I swear to God that I will attempt to bring it to light. Farewell, my friends. Rest in peace.”

  She found her father pacing the courtyard at Westmor Abbey, impatient to leave. “I’m ready,” she told him, embracing her mother and kissing her good-bye. “Let the journey begin.”

  Part II

  London, February 1557

  Fire is the test of gold; adversity, of human strength.

  —Seneca

  Chapter 15

  It was a dreary day, but that didn’t stop the people from turning out. There were hundreds of them—men, women, and children, shoving and fighting with one another in their attempts to secure a good view. They were mostly the poor, many dressed in rags that barely protected their bodies against the raw winter winds. Around the edge of the crowd some prosperous-looking burghers could be found along with a few spectators of noble blood.

  The pickpockets were out, as were the whores. A jongleur sang an inappropriately merry song, and various hawkers cried their wares. A pastry-maker drew uneasy laughter with his black jest about the fresh-roasted flesh that had gone into the making of his delicious meat pies.

  Sitting stiffly on his mount on the edge of the crowd, Roger Trevor surveyed the scene with a well-schooled expression that he hoped was hiding his distress. Why did so many folk regard executions as public spectacles? It was true in every country he had visited. People who in ordinary circumstances were friendly and civilized turned into bloodthirsty savages when some poor scapegoat was led forth among them to be hanged or beheaded or—one of the cruelest deaths of all—burned at the stake. Although there would always be someone who would scream, faint, or run in terror from the scene, the majority would watch with fascination, even pleasure, as their fellow human beings were mutilated and killed.

  And yet, distasteful though he found it, Roger couldn’t condemn these people. After all, he was among them. Once or twice a month he forced himself to pay witness to Mary Tudor’s relentless cleansing of England’s spiritual body. He told himself that he came only to harden his resolution, to convince himself that the double life he was leading was ethical and necessary. But deep in the darker corners of his being he sometimes wondered if he did not come for the same reason everybody else did—to give vent to the cruelty and violence that dwelt within his own soul.

  A great cheer went up as the priests led forth today’s victims. Two middle-aged men and a woman. It was the woman whom everybody watched. She was tall, slender, and very young. The priests were haranguing her, still trying to convince her to recant. She kept shaking her head even as the executioner dragged her atop the pile of faggots and bound her to the stake.

  None of the victims recanted. A stir went through the crowd as the torches were lit and the priests droned their final words. Edmund Bonner, the Bishop of London, who had personally supervised the burning of dozens of heretics, lifted his arm and gave the signal. Over the heads of the crowd, Roger could see his face burning with passion and zeal for his calling.

  The faggots were lit, and screams were heard above the crowd cheering in appreciation. A heavy, nameless fear came over Roger, making his heart race painfully and sweat break out all over his body. Wheeling his horse, he forced his way through the crowd and fled.

  *

  It was the bad beginning of a bad day. At court, where he presented himself for the day’s formalities, which included the presentation of credentials of a new cadre of diplomats from France, Roger felt even more of a hypocrite than usual. Because of his wit, his style, and his impeccable command of the Spanish language, Roger had risen to favor quickly at Mary Tudor’s court. But he had tactfully let it be known that he had no interest in political power. The life he loved was not here at all, he reminded his new friends, but at sea. His chief concern was building the trading partnerships necessary to keep the country strong and economically sound.

  England needed a Levant Company, he frequently reminded his monarch, and an embassy to the Ottoman Empire in Stamboul. English ships had traded in the Mediterranean a few years ago, and there was no reason why they should not be there again. Englishmen were hearty sailors who ought to be exploring the world the way the Spanish and the Portuguese were. Only with strong trade ties around the globe could this island kingdom expect to maintain its identity and its independence.

  The queen, he knew, was not so obsessed with religion that she didn’t recognize the importance of Roger’s vision. She had already made moves to explore trade with Russia under Czar Ivan, and the New World beckoned also. She turned a deaf ear to the Council members who reminded her that seamen and mariners were often free thinkers who had turned against the True Church. Roger was careful not to spark rumors about his own religious belie
fs. When at court, he attended Mass faithfully.

  Today, however, with the memory of the heretic girl’s screams resounding in his ears, he couldn’t face Mass, so he arrived late to court, just in time for the reception of a new suite of diplomats from France. Clad in a formal doublet of deepest blue broadcloth trimmed with satin and lined with fur, Roger stood among the other courtiers while M. de Noailles, the French ambassador, presented several new members of his mission. They were receiving a correct, if strained, welcome from Mary. The two countries were on the verge of war because of Mary’s marriage to King Henri’s enemy, Philip of Spain. Philip was eager to draw English troops and resources into his feud with the French, and Mary was anxious to please her husband and secure Philip’s return to her side, and her bed.

  The outbreak of war seemed inevitable. The new French diplomats hadn’t much hope of saving the situation, Roger knew, wondering who would even undertake such an assignment at this point in time. Their backs were to him, so it came as a substantial shock when the herald read off the name “Monsieur Geoffrey de Montreau” and proceeded with a long list of the man’s credentials and honors. His last post had been at the Sublime Porte in Stamboul.

  As a blond, slender man dressed in crimson velvet trimmed with silver fox knelt to kiss the hand of Mary of England, Roger’s eyes were irresistibly drawn to meet the gaze of the red-haired lady-in-waiting who stood attentively at her post behind the queen. As always, the lively intelligence of those green eyes warmed him. She had made the connection, he sensed, although her expression did not betray it. In the last six months, she had learned to dissemble.

  Alexandra. He said her name quietly to himself, imagining that she could hear him. Take care, Alix, be wary. You’ll need every scrap of intelligence you possess to survive among the vipers at this court. Especially now that Geoffrey is here. Geoffrey, the brother of Celestine. Geoffrey, who has sworn vengeance against me. Geoffrey, the most venomous of them all. How do I warn you about Geoffrey?

  He found an opportunity later that same day. There was dancing that evening to welcome the French, and for once Roger took part in the festivities. The formal pattern allowed little contact with one’s partners, but he managed to count off his position at the start so he would end the dance paired with Alexandra. She seemed to have no suspicion of his ploy. She was too busy concentrating on getting the steps right.

  Roger nearly laughed when his bedraggled former playmate, now transformed into an elaborately jeweled and gowned court lady, turned precisely around three times and stepped forward to meet her final partner. She blinked when she saw who was about to take her hand.

  “If you dare make sport of my dancing, I’ll kick you,” she said with a bright smile.

  Any notion he might have had of making sport of her vanished when their fingers met. Body of Christ! Here it was again, the desire he always felt when in her company.

  He wanted to drag her out the door and into some darkened hall, or better yet, into a bedchamber. He wanted to press her down beneath him and bury himself inside her, loving her over and over until they both collapsed in exhaustion. He was so caught up in this fantasy that he didn’t realize the music had stopped until she drew her hand away. They bowed to one another. He thought her color seemed a little high; he was certain his own was.

  Despite his frequent appearances at court, Roger had stuck to his resolve to avoid Alexandra Douglas. They never met alone, and rarely even in company. On the one or two occasions when he’d been tempted to accost her, he’d found his way blocked by the dangerously genial person of her father. Roger was the only man who seemed to merit such a distinction. When she was off-duty, he noted, Alix was allowed to converse freely with whatever men she chose, or rather, with whatever men chose her, and to Roger’s chagrin, there were quite a few of them.

  “You dance very well, my lady.”

  “My dancing master says I dance with the grace of a hen among swans. You, on the other hand, perform the steps divinely. You’re full of accomplishments, are you not? Dancing, Spanish, shipping, diplomacy, flattery, and flirtation. All the ladies here are mad about you, Roger.”

  “I want to talk to you, Alix. Here, quickly, while we seem to be having a light conversation.”

  The smile stayed on her face, but he could sense her sudden tension. “Speak then. I shall pretend to be laughing and flirting with you.”

  “You’ve changed, poppy-top,” he said softly.

  “Court life tends to age one quickly.”

  It was true. She had matured considerably in six months. She had been a girl last summer, bright and full of life, but still a little unsure about the myriad workings of the adult world. Now, though, there was a seasoned gleam in her gaze that testified to everything she had recently learned and assimilated. And it was not just her understanding that had changed. Somebody had taught her to clothe her slender body in richly fashionable gowns, lightly paint her face with God-only-knew-what to hide the freckles, outline her brows and lashes with something that drew subtle attention to her huge green eyes, and dress her breathtaking hair so it flowed smoothly down her back instead of floating wildly around her face. Wit she had always had, and laughter; now she was growing beautiful as well. Beautiful enough to haunt him, and make him curse himself for the idiotic scruples he seemed to have developed regarding her.

  He forced his mind back to the problem at hand. On the far side of the hall, Geoffrey de Montreau, elegantly attired in bright satin, brocade, and ruffles, was ingratiating himself with the queen. Roger had managed to avoid him all day, but he doubted if the evening would end without a confrontation of some sort. He knew full well that Geoffrey was aware of him.

  “You recall my dread of snakes? There is one now among us. You know to whom I refer?”

  “I’m rather good at names. He had a sister?”

  “He wants me dead, Alix. And he’s a disconcerting person to have as an enemy. He’s a good deal deadlier than he looks.”

  She nodded. “I understand.”

  Someone ranged within hearing and Alexandra laughed as if he’d made a jest, her green eyes sparkling, her lips so red and soft that he lost his train of thought. Bloody little actress! Who would have thought honest, open-faced Alix Douglas could learn the tricks of court life so well in only six months?

  “For myself I have no care. ‘Tis you I’m worried about,” he went on. “Geoffrey is clever. He can be pleasant, but don’t be deceived. He has the instincts of a predator.”

  “I’ll be careful. Thank you for warning me.” If she was apprehensive, it did not show.

  “He’s looking this way. Laugh again, beloved. As you say, all the court ladies are mad about me, and you shouldn’t be the only exception.”

  “I’m hardly that,” she said dryly.

  He raised her hand to his lips. Her skin was soft and fragrant; he had to fight down the temptation to reverse her palm and nuzzle her with his lips and tongue. “I dare not tarry longer beside you, lass. Another minute and your father’s spies will report me. The next thing I know, they’ll be hounding me out of the city.”

  “He has you watched, you know. Not only because of me.”

  Roger knew this all too well; in addition to his official court duties, Sir Charles Douglas was an intelligence-gatherer, the chief of a large network of agents.

  “I hope you’re careful.”

  “Always,” he said as he squeezed her hand once more as, reluctantly, he left her.

  Geoffrey de Montreau intercepted him as he was about to take his leave. “Roger, mon ami, how delightful to see you again.”

  Roger stopped to survey the golden-haired courtier in front of him. Geoffrey had the face of an angel: fair skin, with blue eyes and long thick lashes. In the shape of his bones, Roger could see another face, also pale-skinned and bright-haired, but, unlike her brother, guileless and innocent, as if life’s experiences had yet to etch their tracings there. The innocence had proved to be artificial, but that didn’t excuse his conduc
t. He felt a heaviness in his gut. He hadn’t seen Geoffrey de Montreau since the day he had informed him of Celestine’s death. It had been the only time he’d ever seen genuine emotion in the man he had known for several years. Geoffrey was not a man with an open countenance, nor did he have the amiable disposition that Roger preferred among his friends. Like the experienced diplomat that he was, he maintained strict control of his emotions while behaving with impeccable manners at court. On learning his sister’s fate, however, Geoffrey had broken down and howled. Later, wildly, he had vowed revenge.

  “De Montreau,” he said shortly, inclining his head.

  “You look a trifle pale, my friend. Perhaps you miss the bracing air of the Mediterranean? I must confess to a certain surprise. I never thought to see you dancing attendance at court when you could be riding the quarterdeck of a trading vessel.”

  “And you, monsieur? Why are you wasting your talents in the backwaters of an upstart little country like England when you might be brokering power with the Ottoman empire? This is hardly your area of expertise.”

  “On the contrary, England is fast becoming a power to be reckoned with, is she not? Mary Tudor’s alliance with Spain, my country’s ancient enemy, forces us to take her seriously. Rumor has it that the queen’s advisers have suggested she concentrate on upgrading her naval power. Might this have anything to do with your presence?”

  “I am a commercial, not a military sailor.”

  “You are a mystery, Roger, mon cher.” He smiled charmingly. “But I intend to unveil you. I intend to discover what you are really doing at court.”

  “I have family responsibilities. My elder brother is dead and I am now the heir to my father’s title.” He paused. “You understand family responsibilities, surely?”

  It was dangerous, but it seemed sensible to keep the animosity between them personal. The last thing Roger wanted was to have Geoffrey nosing around and possibly uncovering his connection with Francis Lacklin and the Protestant heretics.