Linda Barlow

by Fires of Destiny

  “I understand them well,” de Montreau returned. His golden lashes flicked open, then closed. “I am anticipating your demise with unparalleled pleasure. It is an event which nothing will induce me to miss.”

  “I’ll be sure to send you a personal invitation,” Roger assured him as he quitted the chamber.

  *

  That night Roger sat sipping wine in the library of Whitcombe House, his father’s London town house, where he’d been living since September. His mind wandered from one melancholy subject to another, all inspired by the arrival of Geoffrey de Montreau and the conversation, brief though it had been, with Alix. The wine was an indulgence he had been resorting to slightly more often than was wise. His nerves had been increasingly on edge. With all his heart he missed standing on the deck of his ship with the ocean heaving beneath his feet. The sea air was a far better tonic than ever wine could be.

  And back to sea he would go, he vowed, as soon as he discharged his debt to Francis. He would leave this country with all its treacheries and unpleasant memories. Leave his father, with whom he could not coexist; leave Francis, who wanted far, far more from him than he had ever been able to give; leave Alexandra, the only woman with whom he might have chosen to stay.

  Alix. Her image was strong in his mind tonight. There were nights, and this was one of them, when he relived every detail of their abortive lovemaking in the witch’s cottage. The memory of her slim-boned body molding tightly to his never failed to arouse him. He recalled her eager lips, her soft cries of pleasure, her joyful and uninhibited response to every novel sensation. She was more genuinely sensual than many more experienced women, and no man could be unmoved by such enthusiasm.

  But there was more to it than that. There had been an intuitive communication in their loving that he knew to be rare. He would never have expected to be drawn to a tall, coltish, red-haired virgin, and yet he was. His need was not feverish, not the intense lusting of a short-lived storm of lecherousness; rather it was strong and steady, like an unwavering flame. And because he avoided her, it was bearable, if only just.

  What was not bearable was the knowledge that she was his equal in courage, determination, passion, and—this was rare for a woman—education. He was tantalized by the chimera of a union of minds, hearts, and bodies that would eclipse any former male-female relationship he had experienced. He might almost have believed himself in love with her if he didn’t know himself to be incapable of that exalted emotion. Celestine’s death had been the final and most harrowing event that had proven that.

  He had long ago decided never to burden another innocent young woman with his particular brand of callous, self-gratifying, short-lasting affection. If he really cared about Alix, he would continue to protect her from himself, for surely there was no one who represented a greater potential threat to her happiness and well-being.

  Still, he could not give up his erotic fantasies about her. He was entitled to pleasures of the imagination, at least, if pleasures of the body were forbidden him. He recalled the exquisite give of her body under his, her lips, her breasts, the pale, soft warmth of her thighs. He was debauching Alix in his mind when Francis Lacklin quietly let himself into the room. Roger looked up from his cup, then dropped his eyes again. Damnation, he thought. But all he said was, “You were careful, I presume? The building is watched.”

  “No one saw me,” Lacklin said. He crossed the room to Roger’s side and removed the cup from his fingers. Then he backhanded Roger across the side of his face, hard.

  Roger lunged out of his chair and grabbed Francis around the throat, but he was off-balance. Francis shoved him aside. “I’ve asked you before not to drink so much.” Lacklin’s voice was furious. “Are you an animal with no spiritual resources? What the devil are you doing to yourself?”

  “What I’m doing to myself is my own affair.”

  “Not when the lives of my people are at stake.”

  “Damn you, Francis. It’s not as if I’m drinking every day. I’m no sot, and besides, there are worse vices.”

  “I need you at your best. If we are to continue our efforts to save dissenters from the flames, your brain must be working clearly. I have enough to worry about without your sinking into a mire of self-pitying melancholia.”

  “Self-pitying? You must have my state of mind mixed up with someone else’s. I never pity myself. The people I pity are the wretched fools who care enough to fret about me. You should have left me in the Mediterranean.”

  “In the Mediterranean you weren’t morose, irritable, and weighed down with guilt. At least, not until your blasted French mistress died.”

  “You hated her, didn’t you? Just the way you’ve always hated any woman I’ve had a fondness for.”

  Francis said nothing for a moment. Then he asked, “Exactly what do you mean by that remark?”

  “You know what I mean.” He was still sober enough to know he was hurting his friend with this baiting, but there was a part of him that wanted to hurt Francis. Ever since he’d been a lad of fifteen, Francis had been there like a bloody guardian angel, watching over him, extricating him from various scrapes, saving his life on more than one occasion. Like a father, like a brother, like a friend, Francis loved him. And Roger knew that despite his religious fanaticism, Francis would have loved him like a lover if Roger had ever shown the slightest sign of being drawn to his own sex.

  “You ought to have some outlet for your desires,” he continued. “Since you don’t seem to have any interest in women, why not a lad? This is London, after all. You can get anything here. It’s unhealthy to dam up your vital powers the way you do. I know of a house down by the river where you could go if—”

  “Stop it.”

  Roger held his tongue, aware that Francis seemed on the verge of losing his usual steely control. This particular subject had always been off-limits between them.

  “I came here tonight for a serious talk with you, not to discuss the temptations of the flesh,” Lacklin said. “Temptations which, I need scarcely point out, you have always been far more prey to than I. Are you listening? I suppose you know that Geoffrey de Montreau has joined de Noailles’ suite at court?”

  “Ah, yes, dear Geoffrey.”

  “You’ve seen him?”

  “Aye. He was perfectly polite and diplomatic. He let it be known, however, that he is looking forward to my expeditious and no doubt inglorious death.”

  “Will you never take him seriously? He means to destroy you. I warned you months ago, but you paid little heed. I told you to kill him.”

  “You’re always telling me to kill somebody or other, Francis. It’s not very Christian of you. I’d be elbow-deep in blood by now if I complied.”

  “Listen, my lily-white angel, he loved that sister of his and he blames you for her death. He’s a danger to you, and thus a danger to our work. Smuggling dissenters out of the country is a crime he’d love to catch you at. I don’t want innocent people to die because you’re too squeamish to deal with Geoffrey.”

  Roger didn’t think Geoffrey de Montreau would be interested in the work he was doing with Francis to help dissenters take ship from England to the Continent where they could find refuge from Mary Tudor’s persecution. Surely, given the deteriorating situation between England and France, the Frenchman would be fully occupied with diplomacy. On the other hand, Geoffrey had made it quite plain that he intended to hound Roger and make him as miserable as he possibly could.

  “If you don’t do something about him, I will,” Francis added.

  Roger raised his head and produced the lazy smile that had proved over and over to be the one thing capable of shaking the older man’s composure. He was ashamed of his behavior. Francis didn’t deserve to be the target of his pettiness and sarcasm. But despite his regret, Roger had no intention of taking orders from Francis, particularly when his friend sought to comment on his personal affairs. “I know you have my welfare at heart. And that of the dissenters, as do I. Nevertheless, I want you t
o leave Geoffrey de Montreau to me. What’s between us is his business and mine.”

  The color rose faintly in Lacklin’s face. “He was once your loyal friend. You think that because a man’s your friend he can never turn against you. That’s where you’re a fool. You don’t acknowledge that devotion itself can wither and rot.”

  “Are we speaking of Geoffrey now, or of you?”

  Silence. Then, “Your tongue is still as deadly as an adder.”

  Roger shrugged. The edge was gone from his voice as he said, “I’ve given you all the friendship and good fellowship there is in me to give. I know it’s not whole or perfect or enough. If there’s a penalty to be paid for my inability to satisfy your expectations, I suppose I’ll suffer it someday. Do you think you’ll find peace at last?”

  There was no answer.

  “Anyway, you’ll have to wait your turn. Geoffrey’s got the first shot.”

  This sparked a reply. “Geoffrey? Or the dear departed Celestine?”

  “She haunts me sometimes, still.”

  “God’s wounds! You didn’t kill the lass. Why can’t you forgive yourself your part in that unhappy affair?”

  “It’s on my head,” Roger insisted. “And I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if she proved someday to be the death of me.”

  Chapter 16

  That evening in Westminster Palace, Alexandra was summoned to the queen’s bedchamber. Jane Dormer, the most trusted and beloved of Mary’s ladies-in-waiting, was pacing there.

  “She’s asking for you, Alexandra. She’s in a highly nervous and melancholic state,” Jane whispered. “Do you think I ought to send for her physician?”

  Alexandra looked across the state bedchamber to where the queen, clad in a rich linen night-robe, knelt at her prie-dieu with her arms clasped tightly around her barren stomach. Her mistress was moaning; tears were slowly flowing down her haggard cheeks. She looked older than her forty-one years.

  “Is she in pain? The colic, perhaps?”

  Jane shook her head sadly, her genuine affection for her mistress clear in her eyes. “Her pain, I fear, is of the soul.”

  Alexandra felt the twist of pity that had become a daily emotion in the six months since she’d come into the queen’s service. In a rigorous apprenticeship that had shaken her forever out of her north-country naiveté, Alexandra had learned many things, not the least of which was that kings and queens were as human as their subjects. She had come to court awed, and not entirely pleased at the idea of serving the woman who had married the foreign Philip of Spain and taken on the task of cleansing England of heresy. When she had first met the queen, Mary Tudor had seemed to her a formidable woman: learned, hard-working, tireless, and devout.

  Now that she knew her better, Alexandra saw that Mary was all those things, and more. She had all the pride and majesty of a monarch, but she was simultaneously a woman. Indeed, she was hopelessly enamored of a husband who had abandoned her eighteen months before to take up his princely duties in Flanders; duties that included carousing until the early hours of the morning with lusty barmaids and errant countesses.

  “Your Grace?” Alexandra went to kneel beside her mistress. “Jane sent for me. Is there something I can do for you?”

  Mary lifted her pale face, smiling thinly. Her tears had dried. As always, Alexandra was struck with her regal bearing, a certain spine-stiff pride that never deserted her, even in her darkest moments. The queen was a complex woman, difficult to love, even when she was at her best. Alexandra could not love her, but she had come to honor her. Mary had courage, and her analytical yet emotional cast of mind was not dissimilar to Alexandra’s own.

  “I have heard that you know something of healing, Mistress Douglas. They tell me you know how to concoct a soothing potion for the nerves. Is this true?”

  “My knowledge is of simple country remedies, your Grace. Surely your own physician—”

  “Bah! I have no faith in the tonics that charlatan brews. He has prescribed one treatment after another to balance my humors without perceptible effect. You have proved to be a reliable young woman. Tell me where you learned your simple country remedies.”

  Alexandra knew such a confession would not be wise. Merwynna, after all, was reputed to be a witch. “In the north, many women still learn the ancient folkways and pass them on to their daughters,” she said vaguely. “I have known the arts of blending certain harmless herbs since I was little more than a child.” She put subtle stress on the word “harmless.”

  “I need something that will ease my overtight nerves,” the queen stated. She rose from her prie-dieu and stiffened her spine. She was a small woman, thin, but erect in her carriage. There was an energy burning within her even when she was at her most melancholy. Her father, Henry VIII, had had that same kingly charisma, people said. Mary’s sister, the Lady Elizabeth, was reputed to have it too. “Can you prepare such a potion?”

  Alexandra recalled the drink she had concocted for Roger’s father at his wife’s request. “Yes, your Grace. ‘Twill work no miracles, but it might offer you some relief.”

  Mary paced the length of her bedroom and stopped in front of a polished mirror of Venetian glass. Before coming to Westminster, Alexandra had never seen such a mirror. At Westmor, mirrors had been wrought of polished metal, which tended to give back a distorted image. But this one produced a true reflection of face and form—for good or for ill. More than once, Alexandra had stared dumbfounded at her own striking image. If she hadn’t been so firmly convinced by her mother’s many years of disparaging remarks that she was no beauty, she might have begun to nurse a few sparks of vanity. Instead, she merely laughed at the poised young woman with the eyebrows carefully plucked and darkened with kohl, the bright hair restrained with artful braids, combs, and jewels, the straight healthy body arrayed in stiff embroidered kirtles and elaborate sleeves, collars, and over-gowns. Even with the help of the royal tiring-women, it took her nearly an hour to get dressed every morning. Anyone ought to look presentable after that much effort.

  The queen was clearly displeased by her own reflection. Alexandra waited in discreet silence while Mary regarded herself by the light of the dim night candles. Even in the six months since Alexandra had known her, Mary had aged.

  The queen turned her back on the mirror. “Have you a potion, too, for restoring womanly beauty?” she asked, her voice touched with a note of irony. “Not that I was ever in possession of an excess of that.”

  “The little I know of such arts has been taught me since I came to court,” Alexandra said carefully. “Besides,”—she drew a deep breath—“there is no such potion, not for you, not for anyone, your Grace.”

  For an instant, annoyance flashed in Mary’s face; then it was replaced by grim amusement. “You are not a flatterer, mistress. Neither are you entirely truthful, I suspect.”

  Maybe not, Alexandra admitted to herself, but only a fool is entirely truthful at a place such as this. Merwynna sometimes brewed potions to restore lost beauty. Alexandra knew more than one of them, although she had her doubts about their efficacy. But she bore her mentor’s warnings close to her heart. You must take care what use you make of the secrets I have entrusted you with. Alexandra had no intention of indicting herself for anything resembling witchcraft.

  Mary turned back to the mirror. “My husband comes soon, they say. His suite has returned, his pages, his horses. In his letters, he promises to follow.”

  Alexandra was tactfully silent. Since her arrival at court, she had heard almost constant talk of Philip’s return to England, and yet he had not come. From one month to the next, Mary had awaited him, hiding her longing behind a mask of stoic resignation during the long hours when she worked with her Council, her advisers, the many officers of the court. In private, however, alone with her women, Mary’s brave facade sometimes crumbled. She knew, as everyone did, of Philip’s infidelities. Several months ago, in a rage, she had kicked his official portrait out of the room. But even so, she pined for him, for
the purpose, if no other, of producing from their conjugal union an heir to the throne.

  The queen’s first pregnancy, of which the nation had had such high hopes, had proved to be a painful and embarrassing error. For eleven months Mary had awaited the outcome, her belly swelling with what was believed to be new life. After hearing Jane Dormer’s account of her mistress’s symptoms, Alexandra was amazed that the physicians could have deceived themselves—and Mary—for so long. The queen had had a dropsical swelling of the abdomen, not a pregnancy. There had been no telltale movement of a developing child. How could they have made such a mistake?

  The false pregnancy had dampened her husband’s never very feverish ardor. Philip had taken most of his entourage and retreated to the Continent, pledging to rejoin his wife soon. But affairs—both public and private—had kept him away for a year and a half. Was he really about to keep his promise to return? The common belief was that he would, if only to secure England’s assistance in the war he was waging with France.

  “I should like to look my best for my lord the king,” Mary added, her voice strained. She turned to Alexandra, her intelligent eyes bright with pain. “A potion for my nerves will do for now. If that proves efficacious, perhaps you will consider sharing with me some of the other folkways you have learned in the north. The beauty-enhancer, for example. Will you help me, Alexandra?” She paused. “In return, I will grant you any boon.”

  It was a plea, and Alexandra had never been able to refuse a direct appeal from a fellow human being in need. Forgetting her notions of what might or might not be foolish, she took one of her sovereign’s limp, dry hands in her own and kissed it. “I will help you, of course, your Grace.”

  “Thank you, my child.”

  *

  Back in her own bedchamber, Alexandra wished she had the energy to blend a potion for her own nerves. Her head ached, but she tried her best to compose her body for sleep. Her duties began far too early in the morning. Mary rose before dawn and often worked at affairs of state until midnight. The queen devoted all her energy to overseeing the welfare of her people, but the problems she faced were difficult: severe economic problems, bad weather that had ruined the harvest and left many poor folk to starve, epidemics of fevers that killed young children and the weak of all ages, and of course, constant religious strife. Mary’s ladies-in-waiting were expected to be nearby while she worked, to attend on her needs and offer their support. Alexandra was happy to do this, for she had compassion for Mary. But in faith, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had more than five hours of sleep.