“No doubt it’s a lie,” Geoffrey said. “The poor misguided girl will say anything that she thinks will keep her by his side.”
“It is no lie.” Alexandra turned furious green eyes on Geoffrey. “And the poor misguided girl is likely to borrow someone’s sword and stick it down your throat, monsieur, if you make one more disparaging remark.”
Sir Charles looked slowly from his daughter to the man she loved. He sighed. “You shall have your wish, my lord. I shall summon a priest.”
*
Two days later Alexandra stood by Roger’s side at the altar in the Whitcombe chapel to speak the vows that would make her his wife. In the interests of haste, the ceremony followed directly upon Richard Trevor’s funeral.
“‘Tis bad luck,” Lucy Douglas lamented. “You do not hold a wedding on top of a burial—shovel in the corpse, then pull out the ring. Nor should you marry in black.”
“I certainly can’t marry in white.”
“Neither could half the brides in this county. At least you’re not showing. Your belly is as flat as an unleavened loaf.”
“It hardly matters, Mother. Everybody knows.”
And indeed, as she stood up with Roger she remembered Merwynna’s words: Ye shall not come a maiden to yer bridal bed.
But there was not to be a bridal bed. Her father and his men were taking Roger away right after the ceremony. “There’s no need for consummation with the bride already pregnant!” he had roared when she’d pleaded for a wedding night with her husband.
“Have some pity, for God’s sake, Father. You’re taking him to his death.”
But he would not be moved. “You’ve had your sport with that blackguard; ‘tis time to pay the piper now, girl.”
In the end Alexandra married in a gown made from the green silk Roger had brought her last summer from Turkey. Around her neck she wore the cherished silver and opal pendant, her only ornament. Roger was dressed simply in a dark doublet and hose.
She and her betrothed stood listening to the sonorous flow of the Latin Matrimonial Mass being said in the chapel from which Roger’s father had sought to have such ceremonies banned. The rites for his father had been Protestant, as the baron had requested. But Roger had been content to be married with the traditional liturgy of the Holy Church. “I am no heretic, despite your long-winded indictment,” he’d informed Sir Charles. “I’ll say any damn vows you please, as long as my marriage is fully recognized by civil and canon law.”
To Alexandra he said privately, “It does not matter what words we speak. God has already joined us, and not even death shall put us asunder.”
Alan and Pris Martin served as attendants. Alan was pale, but he spoke not one word against the marriage. It had not escaped Alexandra’s notice that Alan was almost constantly at the side of Pris, or that Pris would occasionally look upon Alan with a warm expression in her lovely blue eyes. She had been generous in her praises of him, telling Alexandra that she surely would have died had Alan not found her and succored her. “He’s very gentle. And so solicitous in his care of me.”
Was it possible that Pris could fall in love with Will’s younger brother? Alan was handsomer and more sensitive than Will, and like Pris, he had adopted the Calvinist teachings. Why not? Had it not been a time of mourning, Alexandra might have attempted a little matchmaking. Perhaps the experience of standing up together in front of the altar with her and Roger would inspire Alan and Pris to think in similar terms.
Dorcas remained after her husband’s burial to witness the wedding, even though Alexandra urged her to go home and rest. Lucy Douglas was there with Charles, her caustic tongue making an occasional comment that was echoed by the bare walls of the chapel. Geoffrey de Montreau was not present, largely because Alexandra had threatened again to skewer him if he approached her on her wedding day. Roger had made no such threat, but the look in his eyes when he regarded Geoffrey would have intimidated many a hardier soul. Merwynna, of course, was absent. The wisewoman would not under any circumstances enter a church. But she was waiting outside, Alexandra knew, with the cotters and villagers to offer the bridal couple the traditional blessings of prosperity, fecundity, and good fortune.
There was one other person missing from their wedding. Francis. A satisfied smile flitted over Alexandra’s lips as she thought of Francis. Out of the debacle of the last two days, one thing, at least, she had salvaged. She had had the presence of mind to go directly from the baron’s deathbed to the cell below the great hall where Francis had been imprisoned. She changed the dressing on his arm while telling him concisely all that had happened. He bowed his head over her account of Roger’s father’s death and grimaced at the news of Douglas’ arrival with a troop of men. “The only question that remains to be answered is which of them will hang me first—Roger, Douglas, or the queen.”
“Suppose I were to give you the opportunity to live?”
“I would rather you gave me a dagger so I might cut my own throat.”
“I am serious, Francis. Roger could have escaped, but he refused to leave his dying father. Now they will take him to London to be put on trial for heresy and treason. Who will help him then?”
Francis stared at her. “What are you suggesting?”
“It’s you who are the expert at saving people from the so-called justice of the courts. If Roger is to be arrested, I would breathe easier to know that you, at least, were free.”
“Those were nameless, faceless dissidents, Alix. And most of them were not yet under indictment, but simply at risk. Roger is a celebrated felon. If he is brought to trial, he will be condemned and sentenced to death. Nobody will be able to save him then.”
At which Alexandra, thoroughly overwrought, had finally broken down. But instead of sobbing, she had hissed at him, “I am going to leave this cell unlocked. There’s a passage through the cellars that leads to the postern gate, and from there it’s a short walk to the shelter of the woodland. If you’re still here in the morning, damn you, I shall return with a dagger and cut your throat myself!”
But in the morning, Francis Lacklin had been gone, and an innocent man-at-arms was fiercely reprimanded by Charles Douglas for failing to secure the door to his cell. Alexandra had watched the poor fellow insist that the door had been tightly bolted, and listened to her father’s scathing reply. For once she’d felt no trace of guilt at all.
Roger, she suspected, guessed the truth. But he did not question her. Roger seemed determined to exorcise from his mind all thoughts, all feelings concerning Francis Lacklin.
Roger. She felt his hand touch hers. She was being asked to repeat the wedding vows. Looking into his eyes and smiling, she did so, speaking the words clearly as she formally bound herself to her beloved in the eyes of God. He smiled at her also, and the world narrowed to include themselves alone. It was not happening the way she’d wished or imagined, but it was happening. He placed the ring on her finger, his hands warming hers as he did so, and the priest pronounced them husband and wife. Then Roger took her in his arms and kissed her. When she felt the sweet pressure of his mouth upon her own, she forgot all the looming dangers that threatened them. God had given them to each other. Surely He would not divide them.
When the Mass was completed and the final blessings had been invoked, Roger did not march out with his bride as was customary. Keeping her hand tightly clasped in his, he said to Charles Douglas, “We wish to have a few minutes here to say good-bye to one another.”
Douglas could scarcely refuse. “Be quick about it, then,” he said gruffly. “Our horses await us outside, and I would start our journey immediately.” He paused a moment, then added, “I have no great liking for any of this, Trevor. If it were not for that snake de Montreau…” He allowed his voice to trail off.
“I know,” said Roger. “I do not envy you your predicament.”
“I have my duty. The queen’s health is rumored to be failing, but while she’s alive, I’ll not cross her.”
“Enough. Just giv
e us a few minutes alone.”
Douglas touched his daughter’s hand. “You’re a lovely bride, lassie,” he said, and left them.
“Come here, wife.” Roger slid his arms around her waist and pulled her close. He pushed back her veil and threaded his fingers through her burnished hair, which she had worn loose, in the manner of a maid. “Your father’s right. You’re looking exceptionally beautiful today,” he told her, smiling into those honest green eyes that were so naked with her love for him. Her skin seemed translucent, more radiant than ever since her pregnancy. Her delicate nose had an impish quality about it, but her wide, full-lipped mouth was sensuous and womanly. He bent his head and kissed that mouth. She sighed against his lips, responding with a fervor that delighted and tormented him. “Sweetling,” he murmured, sliding his hands down her spine to cup her thighs and crush her intimately against him. “D’you suppose God would strike us with a thunderbolt if I pressed you down upon the altar and consummated our marriage in the church?”
She laughed, the bright sound of her mirth filling the gloomy corners of his soul with sunshine. Most of all, he thought, he would remember her laugh. He would hold it close to him and cherish that joyful, hopeful sound during the long weeks of hell that loomed ahead.
“I know not, but I think it might be just as well not to do anything to offend God at this point. I suspect we’re going to need Him on our side.” She paused, and then added, “Despite my pleading, my father refuses to allow me to accompany you to London. I will come, though. Alan will bring me in a few days, and perhaps Pris Martin too. My mother is also considering making the journey. She says she is tired of missing all the interesting things that happen to everybody else while she is stuck up here in the Yorkshire countryside. And she intends to convince Dorcas to come too, in an attempt to lift her spirits as she adjusts to being your father’s widow.” She smiled and ran her fingers through the dark hair that framed his face. “So you see, my love, you shall not be alone. We will all be there to support you—your wife, your family, the people who love you best.”
Roger closed his eyes in agony. She apparently did not know what to expect of a state trial for heresy and treason. He did. Although the law did not provide for it, they would almost certainly torture him first, seeking a full confession. The trial itself would be little more than a formality. It was possible that he could get the heresy charges thrown out, since he was not a Calvinist and had no qualms about saying so. Unless there were false witnesses, no one could place him at a Reformist religious service. That should save him from the ecclesiastical courts and the stake. But the crown would try him for treason, and that charge would no doubt stick.
The manner of his death was really the only issue to be decided. Someone of his rank was usually dispatched by an ax-wielding headsman. But depending on the whim of the court, he could legally be killed far more hideously—hanged by the neck, cut down while still alive and disemboweled, his entrails burned before his eyes, then bound limb by limb to horses and divided into four pieces—mutilated, ripped apart.
He shook his head to clear it of such hellish images. “I wish you would not come. There will be nothing but pain and torment for you in London, I fear.”
“Roger, you must have hope. All is not lost. All is never lost as long as there is life in our bodies and love in our hearts.” She took his hands and pressed them to her still-flat belly. “You are my husband, the father of my child. I have no wish to be a widow, to raise our babe alone. I will fight for you. You must do the same. Promise me. Promise me you will never surrender to despair.”
“Alix, I beg you to be realistic. I don’t think you understand the seriousness of the charges against me.”
“I do understand,” she said with a shudder that convinced him that she did. “But something may happen, something will happen to save you. I feel, I know that you and I will live for many years together.” She smiled cheerfully into his brown eyes. She had ordered herself to banish terror, banish despair. She would not give in to mournful speculation. She would concentrate on the image of Roger free, Roger safe, Roger alive and in her arms.
He looked down into her brave, determined face and felt a fierce upsurge of love. There was no one to match her. She was his Amazon, his guardian angel, his bright and beautiful love. If she could face the future with such hope and courage, so could he. For her sake he would fight his fate with all his wit and skill and strength. For her sake he would try to stay alive.
“Come here.” He pulled her tight against him and kissed her deeply. Her arms wound around his neck, her sweet breasts nestled to his chest. She was soft and fragrant, his wife, his lover, his soul’s true partner until the end of time. “I adore you, Alix. We will be together again.”
She tilted her head back slightly. “Swear it, Roger. Promise me.”
He pressed her to his heart. “As God is my witness, I do so swear.”
They held each other close until her father came back insisting that it was time for them to part.
As Roger Trevor rode down the road that led south from Whitcombe, a prisoner surrounded by a troop of twenty men-at-arms, he turned his head to see Alix smiling and waving to him from the church steps. He waved too, until he rounded a bend in the road and could see his beloved no more. So he missed the sight of Alexandra’s jauntily waving hand falling limply to her side; he did not see her sway and fall, nor did he hear her heartrending whimpers of terror and grief. He did not see her mother kneel beside her and take that shining red head into her lap, nor was he aware of Merwynna slipping out of the crowd around the church to touch Alexandra gently and press an herbal potion to her lips. No, he remembered her brave and strong and smiling, which was exactly what she had hoped. That cheerful image, delivered at great cost and taxing her acting abilities to the utmost, had been her parting gift to him.
Part IV
London, January 1558
But true love is a durable fire,
In the mind ever burning,
Never sick, never old, never dead,
From itself never turning.
—Sir Walter Raleigh
Chapter 42
Alexandra touched an anxious hand to the front of her gown as she awaited her summons from the queen’s chamberlain. When she was finally allowed to enter Mary of England’s private chamber for the audience she had requested a week ago, she was outwardly calm, but inside she was trembling. As if in sympathy, the child within her kicked and rolled. “Oh, love, we must do our best now, mustn’t we?”
The queen was sitting at her writing table, with piles of documents in front of her, as always. A tireless worker, she was dedicated to the task for which she believed herself chosen by God. If He was failing to reward her devotion in any obvious manner, surely her spiritual goods must be piling up in heaven—was that what Mary was telling herself these days? Her life, certainly, had been joyless and cruel.
Although Alexandra had been announced, Mary ignored her slow approach. She was hunched over her papers, scribbling something with her quill. The same quill with which she had signed the warrant condemning Roger? Alexandra drew a deep breath and prayed for calm, for courage, and for eloquence.
The queen raised her head and Alexandra sank in a deep curtsy. It was a move she had practiced. She was not yet ungainly, but still, a six-month child created certain problems, particularly since she was doing her best to conceal her pregnancy from the queen. Her farthingale had been skillfully positioned to hide as much of the evidence as possible.
“Ah. Alexandra,” said Mary without inflection.
“Your Grace.”
“It has been some time since we have looked upon your face.”
“Yes, your Grace.” She moved a little nearer, startled at the way her monarch had changed. Mary looked old. She was meticulously dressed, as always, but her face was lined and sunken about the eyes, and her skin had an unhealthy pallor. Her eyes were dark and tragic, and something was gone from her—that old spirit that had held her stalw
art and strong, no matter what adversities were haunting her. She was indeed a haunted woman, and ailing, the gossips whispered, since her husband had abandoned her again last summer.
“I have thought of you often,” the queen went on, lifting her quill from her papers and tapping it against the fingers of her other hand. “I have particularly missed the potions you so kindly used to brew for me. My physicians are fools. I feel almost constantly unwell.”
“I am so sorry, your Grace.”
There was a pause, and Alexandra wasn’t sure whether to break it or wait for the queen to speak again. Surely she knew why she was here.
“Your father is in good health, I trust?”
“Aye, your Grace.”
Mary’s sharp eyes looked right through her. “And your husband?”
Alexandra straightened her shoulders. “As you know, he is condemned to death. You signed the warrant last week.”
“Last week? The sentence has not yet been carried out?”
Alexandra’s voice seemed to come from someone other than herself. “He is due to be executed two days from now. Unless you cancel the warrant. Which, as you must realize, is what I have come to plead for you to do.”
The queen shuffled her papers. “I have read my clerks’ accounts of his trial. He has been condemned of treason, and there is no question in my mind of his guilt. Since he declared himself no follower of such archfiends as Luther, Calvin, and Knox, the charges of heresy were dismissed. The charges of abduction and rape were dropped when the chief witness against him—you—refused to testify. Indeed, this complex case has caused a tangle in my courts. But about his treason, there has never been any doubt, although he did, I understand, defend himself quite skillfully during his trial. An interesting man, your Roger Trevor. It is sad indeed that he chose to put his considerable talents to such villainous use.”
Alexandra moved closer. “Your Grace, I love him. He is not a heretic, has never been a heretic. His only crime was to help some people whom he misguidedly considered less fortunate than himself. He was not disloyal to you; the man he worked with—the same man with whom he later fought a duel of honor—had a hold over him which has now been broken. He is no threat to you. If you cancel this warrant and let him live, he may one day prove of great value. You need a man like him to broaden England’s Mediterranean trade. The war with France has been costly. My husband can sell good English cloth and tin to the East for the silver and gold that are sorely needed in the coffers of state. He can also—”
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