“But who is to say the new is any more valid than the old? I cannot believe God would be so petty as to care whether the Mass is said in English or Latin, or whether the Body and Blood of Christ are actually present in the Host.”
“‘Tis you, I think, who are the heretic. You sound like Roger. At Whitcombe, he expressed similar cynical views, even if he did not truly espouse them.”
“My views are not cynical. Cynics do not mourn the failings of humanity. They revile them. And how do you know whether he espouses them or not?”
Alan shrugged and did not answer. “How do you worship, Alix?”
“I go to Mass with everybody else at court. While the priests rant and rave about heresy, I turn inward to ignore them, praying in my heart that all this strife may stop and we may live together in peace and tolerance. What do you do? Proclaim your dangerous views in the streets?”
“Of course not. I’m a coward, remember? I admire men like Latimer and Ridley, but I’d never choose their path.”
“And what of Pris Martin?” she asked, remembering how this discussion had begun. “Will she follow your advice and come to London? Do you really know people who can arrange overseas exile for heretics?” As soon as she asked the question, insight flashed. “Oh, God’s blood! Are you thinking of Roger? The resistance we encountered from the boatman about rowing out to the Argo? You believe he’s not just shipping cargo, but also refugees?”
Alan winced and turned his eyes away.
But everything was clear to her now. “You learned at Whitcombe that your brother was associated with the heretics. At the time you despised him for it, but now, after Oxford, you’ve changed your views.”
His shrug confirmed her suspicions.
“But it’s nonsense,” she protested. “Roger’s passion is shipping, not religion. You heard him. He dreams of trade routes to the east, exploration to the west. And he’s no true heretic, whatever skullduggery he may be mixed up in. Surely he wouldn’t risk his dreams for a bunch of Marian exiles.”
“Probably not,” Alan agreed. “The idea is nothing more than one of my romance-inspired guesses. Seeing him, wrongly, as a hero of sorts. Or as a villain, depending on your political views.”
Alexandra frowned and bit her lip, wondering at his disinclination to argue. Could he be right? What was Roger up to with the heretics? And whom had Francis asked him to kill? “You seemed to be on much better terms with him tonight. You’re going to go and live with Roger, aren’t you?”
“If he’ll have me.”
He’ll have you, she thought with an uncharacteristic spurt of envy. ‘Tis me he won’t have.
“Sweet God,” she said aloud. “Now I’m going to have to worry about you both.”
*
Worry she did, but not just about Alan and Roger. Her week of freedom passed all too fast, and she was shut up once again with the queen and her courtiers at Westminster, where the atmosphere was one of unrelenting tension. Spring was late that year, the wet, stormy weather continued, and the April days were gloomy with talk of war. England’s participation in King Philip’s conflict with the French became unavoidable when, at the end of the month, Thomas Stafford, a Plantagenet descendant who had a distant claim to the throne of England, sailed from France with French ships and French soldiers to attack and capture Scarborough Castle. Stafford denounced the Queen’s Spanish marriage and declared himself Protector of the Realm. He expected the people to rise for him, but this did not happen. He was quickly defeated, captured and brought to trial for treason. Rumor had it that King Philip had known of Stafford’s plans for some time and allowed him to land with his small contingent of troops in order to force the hand of the Queen’s Council.
Alexandra watched with pity as the queen tried to please her husband both in the council chamber and in the bedchamber. The first involved delicate negotiation with reluctant Council members to provide men, arms, and funding for the upcoming war. The second involved long hours of careful toilette, and, now and then, one of Merwynna’s beauty potions. Alexandra tried, for her own sake, to keep the latter a secret, but the word leaked out, as rumors of such miracles will. Soon there was a demand for witchy folk remedies that would have amused her, had it not seemed so incongruous at a court where prayer was supposed to be more efficacious than magic.
Geoffrey de Montreau continued to plague her. Although she did what she could to avoid him, now and then he succeeded in isolating her from her companions. Invariably, at such times, he would maneuver the conversation around to Roger, although this happened so subtly that she sometimes wondered if she were imagining it. She fought back by hiding her consternation, reacting to his remarks with widened eyes and feigned ignorance, as if she were missing his point entirely. But Geoffrey was not deceived.
“I gossip too much. It was ever a flaw in me,” he confided to her one evening as they danced. “You are careful to refrain from displaying your wit with me, mademoiselle. Yet with others, I hear, you have a clever tongue.”
“Ah, sir, I think I have just been insulted. I strike you as dull?”
“You strike me as better disciplined than I believed when first we met.”
“How disappointing for you, monsieur. You are having an unpleasant turn on fortune’s wheel. Diplomacy has not eased the tensions between your country and mine, has it? There will be war?”
“Any day now, I expect.”
“And when it comes, will you return to France?”
His liquid eyes hardened. “I will return to France when my business here is finished.”
She felt a chill in her abdomen. He might just as well have said, “I will return to France when Roger Trevor is dead.”
As still happened sometimes, a demon seemed to take possession of her tongue. “Your sister Celestine died of a fever, I understand.” Actually, she had no idea how Celestine had died. “It’s not as if she was murdered.”
Before her eyes, Geoffrey’s carefully constructed mask of diplomacy cracked. Anger blazed in his face, and behind it, just a hint of terrible, unrelieved grief. He whirled her off the floor and into an alcove with less regard than usual for who might be observing them. “A fever?” he scoffed. “Is that the tale he spun you? No, mistress, she suffered no fever. She was basely raped and forced into concubinage by one of the most notorious lechers in the Middle Sea. And then she was murdered.”
“Why?” she asked quietly.
“Why?” Geoffrey repeated as if the question were half-witted.
“People don’t go about murdering their lovers for no reason. Are you suggesting he killed her because he was bored with her?”
“He killed her because she was carrying a child. Since she was of his own degree in life, he would have been forced to marry her. I would have insisted upon it. He knew that. But he did not wish to wed her, so there were ‘complications’ of her pregnancy. Very convenient complications.”
Could any of this be true? Alexandra tried to reconcile it with what little Roger had told her himself that night in Merwynna’s cottage. He hadn’t mentioned Celestine’s pregnancy. But he had reacted full strongly when she had asked if he knew any way to prevent conception. I know a way or two, but experience has taught me that such precautions don’t always work.
“What sort of complications? How far along was she? Did the child survive?”
“Of course the child didn’t survive. That’s just the point: he didn’t want the child. She suffered a miscarriage and bled to death, after being brutally beaten by him. I have a witness, one of his former crew members, who heard his raging and her screaming on the night she died.”
I killed her, Roger had said. She shivered. “I do not believe it. I have good reason to know that Roger is no murderer.”
“You know nothing,” he said derisively. “Roger and I had dealings together some years ago, and I have seen the way he treats his women. He uses them callously without tenderness or care; if they make the mistake of loving him, so much the worse for them. My sister
was a virgin, fresh from a convent education, traveling to Venice to join the man to whom she was betrothed. I had planned to travel with her, but the delicate diplomatic affairs I was negotiating prevented it. Fool that I was, I entrusted her to Roger, little thinking that he would besmirch her honor and mine in so vile a manner.”
“Well, whatever may have happened between them, I cannot believe that Roger killed her.”
“What you believe is nothing to me, mademoiselle. I know the truth. She demanded marriage, but as the heir to a barony, Roger had other ideas as to who might be an appropriate mother to his firstborn son. It seems he had another match in mind.” He glared at her as if he thought she were it.
“Roger wasn’t the heir to the title at the time of her death. And as far as I know, he has no intentions to marry.”
“You were once betrothed to the heir of the Baron of Whitcombe.”
“I was betrothed to a man, not to a title. That man is dead. There is nothing between Roger Trevor and me besides friendship.”
“I do not believe you, mademoiselle. But it hardly matters, since soon there will be nothing between you but ashes and dust.”
Angry and shaken by his threats in spite of her determination not to be, Alexandra turned her back on him and took her leave.
*
Towards the end of May, amid constant preparations for war, the weather briefly opened up, and the queen and her ladies were able to spend an occasional hour in the fresh air and sunshine. Alexandra fervently hoped the fine weather would cheer them all. More than before, she feared for her mistress’s physical and emotional well-being. Mary’s relations with Philip, her husband, were far from perfect. Gossip had it that he would leave her again as soon as he obtained the troops and supplies he needed for his war on the Continent. Indeed, at Gravesend, some miles downriver, Philip’s ships were in the process of being loaded.
The Argo, she had heard, was also preparing to leave shortly for a trading voyage to the Mediterranean. According to Alan, who visited her whenever he could, Roger was too busy with the preparations for this venture to appear often at court. It seemed an age since she had seen him. Although she missed him acutely, she was grateful that Roger was temporarily out of reach of Geoffrey de Montreau’s malice.
As the days drifted by, Alexandra was lulled into a state of false security about Geoffrey. In the four months he had been at court, Geoffrey had made any number of sly remarks and threats, but so far, no harm had come to Roger. Perhaps the Frenchman was more proficient at envisioning revenge than he was at carrying it out.
*
Then, early in June, disaster struck. It began innocently during one of the court’s fair weather outings—a barge trip down the river to Hampton Court Palace. The queen’s clearly-marked barge, flying the royal standard, had just docked at the landing where she and her attendants would disembark when a drunken riverman lost control of his boat and rammed the royal barge. The flustered man fumbled with his long oars, accidentally thrusting one of them at the queen, who was about to step from the barge to the dock. The oar did not strike her—fortunately for the fellow’s neck—but the queen was forced to jerk backward out of the way, coming perilously close to the edge of the wooden planking. Indeed, if Alexandra hadn’t had the presence of mind to grab the royal shoulders and steady her mistress, Mary might have ended up in the river.
The boatman, horrified when he realized whom he had nearly dunked, fell abjectly to his knees and begged her Grace’s mercy. It was granted, along with a gentle admonition that he give up the evils of strong drink. The queen was always kind and gracious to her subjects, and this time was no exception. By the time they all arrived safely back in the royal apartments, Mary had recovered sufficiently to shrug the matter off, and Alexandra would have put it from her mind had it not been for Geoffrey de Montreau.
“A word, mademoiselle,” he said to her the following morning at yet another court function.
She lifted her chin and turned to walk away, no longer feeling the slightest desire to be courteous to Geoffrey. He was insistent, though, stopping her with a beringed hand on her heavy brocade sleeve. “You distrust and dislike me, I know, but what I have to say to you this day is something you ought not disregard.”
“Very well, monsieur. Speak.”
“I will waste no words. Your mistress narrowly escaped injury, even death, yesterday morning, is that not so?”
“There was a minor incident. Nothing to be concerned about.”
“She does not swim, of course, and I am told there was a stiff current on the river. Even if she had been safely pulled out, she might have taken a chill from the dunking. Her health is not the best, they say.”
“What are you implying? It was an accident.”
“Perhaps. But accidents happen frequently around some people. The Trevor family has been plagued with them.”
Alexandra tried to pull away from him. His grasp was firmer than she expected. “I thought it might interest you to know that the boatman responsible for nearly drowning the queen was employed until recently as a seaman on Roger Trevor’s ship. A coincidence? I have my doubts. Reports say that this supposedly drunken man walked away from the scene of the so-called accident and has not been seen since.”
Whatever happened to that clever plan you had to assassinate Mary Tudor and place her Protestant sister on the throne? Jesu! A sick sensation spread through her middle. Could it be the queen whom Francis had been urging Roger to help him murder?
“You are imaginative, as usual, monsieur,” she managed, but her palms were beginning to slicken.
“Am I, mistress? We are talking, you remember, about your sovereign, your mistress, the woman you serve so lovingly night and day. Or could it be that your loyalties are divided?”
“My loyalties! Look to your own! You represent a country with whom England will shortly be at war. If something were to happen to our queen, few people would be happier than the French.” She gulped breath. “Listen, sir. I’m not a fool—I know you delight in lying to me. You seek Roger’s death, and because of this I don’t believe anything you tell me about him. I’ve suffered more than enough of your venom. Kindly do not approach me again.”
He bowed, an unpleasant smile marring the perfection of his features.
“And if anything should happen to him,” she added, “I will personally see to it that you are cast into the deepest dungeon in Christendom, your diplomatic standing be damned.”
She turned to walk away, but Geoffrey had the last word. “If anything should happen to your mistress, mademoiselle, remember I tried to warn you. The man you so stoutly defend is a traitor, a heretic, and a slaughterer of women.”
Try as she might, she could not entirely dismiss the accusation from her mind. She made every effort to carry on with her usual duties, but the worry must have shown on her “open countenance,” since her friend and suitor Philip Carrington noted it. He had been pursuing her more vigorously lately, hinting that since he might shortly be risking his life in Philip and Mary’s army, it was incumbent upon Alexandra to consider accepting his suit. Her father approved of him, she knew. But although Alexandra enjoyed his company, the idea of marrying Philip had never seriously crossed her mind.
“Is aught amiss with you?” he asked her that afternoon after catching her staring vacantly over his shoulder three times during a ten-minute conversation.
“I’m afraid I have a killing headache,” she told him, and it was not a lie.
“Slip out and rest, then,” he suggested. “I’ll tell Jane Dormer to inform her Grace you’re ill and have taken to your bed for the rest of the day.”
She squeezed his hand gratefully and took his advice. But instead of retiring to bed, she left the court for her father’s house, where she was thankful to find him absent. She promptly invaded his wardrobe of disguises, this time choosing the clothing of a somewhat flamboyant burgher woman. Her first stop was the river, where she sought out the young boatman to whom she’d given a co
in several weeks before. When she threw back her hood and showed him her face, he remembered her. Aye, he agreed, everybody had heard of the near-accident her Grace had suffered yesterday at the barge landing. No, the fellow involved did not regularly ply his trade on the river; in fact, nobody had seen him before, or since. Unless, now that she mentioned it, the knave did look very much like one of the scowling-faced mariners from that ship in the harbor that everyone had been bribed to stay away from. The Argo was gone now, down river, preparing to sail. He had heard tell she was due to put out to sea on the dawn tide tomorrow, for a voyage to some mysterious distant land, like China.
China! She’d send Roger to China, damn him, if he’d really had anything to do with the queen’s near-miss. Heavy-hearted, but determined to get to the bottom of this, Alexandra tipped the riverman generously and set out for Whitcombe House.
Chapter 20
Roger and Alan Trevor were sitting around a table in the central hall of Whitcombe House that afternoon with Richard Bennett and several of his friends, discussing possibilities for exploration in the New World. Alan seemed fascinated with the subject; some of the boy’s dreams were even more elaborate than Roger’s own. Roger was finding it difficult to concentrate on trade routes and ship design today. He was too preoccupied with his plans for the night.
Why was he obsessed with the feeling that something was going to go wrong? He kept running the details over in his mind. He and Francis had everything meticulously planned—there was nothing they’d missed, was there? They’d been careful, and nobody in authority suspected a thing. So why was he so damnably restless?
He told himself he ought to be grateful that this day was upon them; after tonight, it would all be over. Tomorrow morning when the Argo set sail on the dawn tide, he would finally be free of the debt he owed Francis Lacklin, free of the worry that Sir Charles Douglas might order a search of his cellars, free of the fear that someone might betray them. After tonight he would be able to forget about the heretics and concentrate all his energies on the things that concerned him most: shipping, trade, and exploration.
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