“And you know this because…”
“Because I was there. I was there in the cave atop Thorncroft Overhang on the day she died. She had come there to meet me and consummate our love.”
“Sweet Christ.” Roger remembered the strange feelings he had experienced on that stormy day when he and Alix had confronted one another in the cave at Thorncroft Overhang. It was a cursed place. Ned, the halfwit, had died there, and he had wrestled Alix to the ground, and barely restrained himself from hurting her. “What happened? How, then, did she die?”
“May I sit down?” Without waiting for an answer, Charles dropped onto the end of the cot and buried his tawny head in his hands. “‘Twas a bad day, wet and foggy the way it often is in Westmor Forest. The path up the cliff was slippery. We got to the top and a storm broke. Catherine was frightened of thunder, as perhaps you remember. There was little else in life that scared her, but in thunder, she used to say, she felt the power and wrath of God.” He broke off for several seconds.
“In sooth I grew impatient with her,” he went on. “Instead of entering the cavern with me, she pointed up at the sky, declaring the storm to be a sign from God that she should not break his commandment. It began to pour rain, and I had had enough. I put my arms around her, kissed her, and tried to coax her into the shelter of the cave. She broke away, angry. It happened quickly. I can still see it, even now, so many years later. Thunder cracked and a great fork of lightning came down. She shied and lost her balance. She was too near the edge. Her feet slipped on the wet ground; she slid and fell. I tried to grab her; I nearly went over myself trying to save her. When I realized she was gone, I almost jumped to join her… I went a little mad… the storm itself was drowned out by my howls of grief.” Douglas shuddered visibly. “The memory of it still makes me want to howl, even now, so many years later.”
“You told no one.”
“How could I, man? She was the baron’s wife. No one would believe her innocent if they knew she had met me alone in the forest. Besides, I had promised her that no one would ever know the secret of our love.” He met Roger’s eyes. “I do not break that promise lightly. But I loved your mother, and I would see you at peace with her. Alix says you forgave your father at his deathbed. I would ask you to forgive Catherine too.” He paused, adding heavily, “And me. For this, and for all the other wrongs I’ve done you.”
Roger closed his eyes. His father’s pleading for forgiveness haunted him still. Had he truly forgiven him? If forgiveness meant the giving up of all anger and bitterness, he feared he’d failed, for he was bitter still. “You ask too much of me, all of you.” He rose and paced, his steps rapid and jerky. “Damn you. Am I supposed to turn into some sort of saint because I’ve been condemned to die? What am I supposed to say, to feel? If you had told me this story at some other time, it would perhaps have been different. I would have felt something more, done something more. But my mother is dead. My father is dead. And despite what I know will happen to me two days from now, I am still alive.”
He slammed his fist against the stone wall. “I’m alive and I’m not sitting here thinking about sin, guilt, and forgiveness. All I care about is my wife, whom I love, and my child, whom I will never see. The truth is, I don’t give a damn about your tragic lovers’ triangle. It’s nothing to me now. All I can think of is Alix, my own sweet love, whom you have cruelly pulled, time and time again, from my arms!”
Charles bowed his head in silence. Roger rubbed a hand across the moisture on his cheeks and added, “I am not reconciled to death, you see. They tell me I’ll go straight to the devil, but I don’t believe that. For I swear to you, when I am dead and my spirit is free, no demon’s chains will keep me from my beloved’s side. Other folk may wing off to heaven or to hell, but not me, Douglas. I’m staying here, with her, for the rest of her earthly life. And when at last she dies and joins me, I defy both God and Satan to separate our immortal souls.”
Douglas shook his head under the force of this declaration. “I warrant they ought to have tried you for heresy after all,” he said gently. He rose. “I have said what I came to say.” He held out his hand. “Farewell, my son.” His voice quavered a little, then came once again under control. “God give you the strength you need.”
Roger clasped his hand, then moved closer and embraced the man who had loved his mother. “If the affection and respect I feel for you constitutes forgiveness, then you have it freely of me. Go now. I’ve been unmanned enough for one night.”
Douglas clapped him on the shoulders once and left.
Chapter 44
Dressed in a long loose gown and high-heeled slippers that added several inches to her height, Alexandra was getting ready to meet her co-conspirators the following evening when one of the Whitcombe House servants came into her chamber to announce the arrival of her father. Reluctantly she went down to meet him, covering her head with a cap so he could not see the pitifully short curls that were all that remained of her hair.
“Father? I did not expect you tonight,” she said uneasily as she embraced him. “How is Mother?”
Her parents had been living together at her father’s town house for several months now while Alexandra maintained her own residence at Whitcombe House. When she had come to London, they had pressed her to stay with them, but she had refused, insisting that she was the head of Roger’s household now and intended to behave as such. The dowager baroness Dorcas was with her there, as were Alan and Priscilla Martin. They would have made a merry group, Alexandra suspected, were they not all so heartsick about Roger.
“Your mother is well, but she misses you. I’ve come to take you home. Lucy and I don’t want you to spend this night alone.”
Alexandra was touched; she could see the love and sympathy in her father’s eyes. Roger was to die; her parents wished to comfort her. She was grateful, yet she must convince her father that she did not require their help. She must convince him to leave so she could go about the business of saving her husband’s life.
“I thank you, but I do not need you yet,” she said gently. “Tomorrow I will need you.”
“We want you with us tonight. In the morning, early, we will set out for Westmor together.”
“No!”
“Roger was right. You have every intention of going to watch the execution.”
“I have no such intention,” Alexandra said in perfect honesty. There wasn’t going to be an execution.
“Daughter, I have spoken with your husband. I have promised him that you would not be in London to witness his death. ‘Tis the least I can do for him. So get your things together. You are coming with me now.”
Sweet heavens, this was Roger’s doing. Her father was looking determined; it would not be easy to be rid of him. And yet, she must.
But before she could say more, there was another commotion at the front entrance, and Alan entered with Richard Bennett, the mariner-adventurer whom they had met at Roger’s house last summer. He was a close friend of Roger’s who had offered to help in any way he could. Alexandra had taken him up on his offer; it was his ship, waiting in the river, that she and Francis intended to utilize for Roger’s escape.
“Here we are, Alix. Are you ready? Francis will be below by now, waiting in the cellars—” Alan cut himself off when he saw her father.
Sir Charles Douglas looked with narrowed eyes from his daughter to the two men, who were dressed in dark clothes for concealment and armed to the teeth. “What the bloody hell is going on here?”
Alan flushed and began to stammer a reply, but he was interrupted by Richard Bennett, a dark and handsome man with quick wits and a smooth tongue: “We’ve come to abduct the lady and make merry with her. To force her to forget her troubles. Indeed,” he added, winking an extraordinarily blue eye at Alexandra’s father, “we mean to get her so blind drunk that she will sleep around the clock tomorrow.” He slipped an arm around Alexandra’s waist and pulled her to his side. “Come, lovely lady, and we will sing and dance bef
ore we mourn.”
Douglas blocked his path to the door. “D’you take me for a fool, man?” His tone was low and dangerous. “You’re up to some scheme, the three of you. Suppose I were to call in a troop of the queen’s guards to accompany you on your night of revels?”
Alexandra freed herself from Bennett’s arms and stood stubbornly facing her father. Her voice was as hard as his as she said, “You have done enough to destroy my happiness. This time you will not interfere. Do you hear me? You will leave my house, return to your own, and tell no one.”
“Are you mad, lassie? You are six months gone with child.”
“Yes, and I would have more children! And a husband to father them.”
“You cannot extract your husband from the Tower of London. You will be arrested and condemned to die yourself.”
“Nevertheless, I am going to try.” She reached under her cloak and drew her dagger from her girdle. She held it poised and ready, her will as firm as that of any warrior. “If you attempt to stop me, I will kill you.”
Douglas cursed, but made no move toward her. For several seconds there was utter silence in the room. Alan and Richard Bennett closed around Alexandra; their hands hovered near the hilts of their swords. Alexandra was rigid, her green eyes hard and implacable. “I mean it, Father.”
The tension broke as Douglas unexpectedly flashed a smile. “God’s blood! No wonder that young devil loves you. You’re a rare fine woman, daughter, and that’s the truth.” He sighed. “The queen is nearly finished, you know. We’ve just had word that the French have taken Calais. Rarely has the new year been rung in with so disastrous a loss. The war will end in ignominy for England and her queen, who is sick at heart and weak of body. She will be dead, I doubt not, before many months have passed; those who have supported her policies will fall.”
“And you do not intend to be one of them?”
“The Lady Elizabeth, I am told, has expressed secret admiration for your husband’s efforts on behalf of the Protestant refugees. If we could keep him alive until she takes the throne, I believe she could be convinced to grant him a full pardon.”
Alexandra hardly dared to breathe. “If we could keep him alive?”
Sir Charles laughed heartily. “Aye. I’ve decided to help you, daughter. Your rogue of a husband has won me over at last. Tell me what I can do.”
Alexandra sheathed her dagger and flung herself into her father’s arms.
*
A little over an hour later, Alexandra stood with her head bowed in the executioner’s gloomy chamber as he opened the coffer she had wordlessly presented to him. A wild profusion of burnished red hair greeted him. Alexandra had cut it off herself, braided it together at one end, and laid it in the chest. But now as Simon lifted her hair from the coffer, stroking one coarse finger over the bright, luxurious waves, she felt herself tremble with rage. ‘Twas a rape of sorts, and she hated him for it.
“Very good, my lady,” he said as he weighed the thick hair in his hands. “‘Tis full four feet long and will fetch a high price. My wife will be pleased.”
“No doubt,” she said dryly.
He laid the hair aside and examined the rest of the contents of the coffer, which consisted of gold coins adding up to even more than the amount she had promised. “Excellent,” he said, allowing a few pieces of gold to trickle through his fingers. “You have done well.” Smiling, he turned to look at her. “Now there is but one part of our bargain left to fulfill.”
She shuddered, but took care not to betray her revulsion. “Shall we get on with it, then?”
“Aye.” He ran his tongue over his lips in lustful anticipation. “Remove your cloak, please. I wish to see how you look now that your crowning glory is gone.”
Alexandra threw back her hood, revealing her shorn head. It felt strangely light without the weight of her hair, which was now cropped just below her ears. It curled up gently, looking even shorter than it was. She would have resembled a boy, had it not been for her full belly.
Simon walked around her once, examining her as if she were a horse he was considering buying. She flushed in misery, wondering how much of this she would have to endure. Where was Francis? “You must distract the fellow,” he had told her. “There must be no opportunity for him to give the alarm.”
“Now your gown,” said the executioner, his voice harsh and husky. “Are your breasts as soft and white as your shoulders, mistress?” He stepped close to her and tore at her laces himself when her own fingers stumbled over the unwelcome task. He shoved one hand in against her bare skin and squeezed her breast, making her gasp. “Ah, your pregnancy makes them tender, does it? What a pity.” He squeezed again and Alexandra realized sickly that he was the sort of man who found pleasure in hurting women as he took them. What other sort, indeed, could she have expected to ply such a trade as his? Sweet God! She knew a sudden fear for the babe in her belly as Simon pushed her down roughly across the bed. Francis, please!
She felt him climbing on top of her, dragging her skirts up, his harsh, bad-smelling breath hot on her face. When she squirmed, he slapped her. “Hold still, wench. Fine lady you may be, but between your legs you’re a whore like any other.” He was tearing at his clothes, so crazed with lust that he neither heard nor saw the dark shadow that crept up behind him. But Alexandra did. She saw both the shadow and the glint of steel. She averted her eyes as Simon bared himself, laughing in his triumph over her. The laugh turned into a strange gurgle in his throat as he collapsed limply upon her, a look of stark amazement on his coarse features.
Francis Lacklin rolled the body to the floor and looked away as Alexandra jerked down her skirts, sat up, and tried to refasten her bodice.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.” She forced her voice not to quaver.
“I’m sorry I had to wait so long, but I didn’t want him to raise an outcry.”
She nodded, rising quickly to her feet and stepping away from the lump of flesh that was lying there. There was no doubt whatsoever that he was dead. And there was very little blood; he must have been stabbed directly in the heart, stopping it instantly. Francis Lacklin could kill very neatly when he had no qualms to impair him.
“Come quickly. Your hair; don’t forget your hair.” He helped her into her cloak and pulled the hood tightly over her head. Her thick red locks she clutched to her breasts, hiding both arms under the voluminous folds of the cloak, and followed him out into the dark corridor that led toward Roger’s cell.
*
Harry, the kindly warder, suspected nothing as he showed Alexandra and the priest in to see his prisoner. He must have seen Francis recently with the other prisoners, for he did not question his presence. “You’ll do more good for the lady than for ‘er ‘usband, I warrant, Father. That one takes no comfort in religion. ‘E’ll very likely toss you out afore you get a blessing past your lips.”
Roger was stretched out on his stone slab when they paused outside his cell. He sat up slowly as the door swung open, blinking into the light of the warder’s torch. He saw Harry and a black-gowned man—oh Christ, not another priest—then a third person, a woman. “Alix?” She ran toward him; he threw out his arms and she flung herself into them. He held her tight, his hands stroking over her sweet body in disbelief. He hadn’t thought to see her again. He’d believed her visit of yesterday to have been their final farewell. He pushed the hood back from her face to kiss her and saw in confusion her close-cropped curls. He swore softly. “Your hair, lassie, what have you done to your hair?”
“Nothing,” she said, and he caught the warning in her eyes. Behind her the priest closed the cell door with the warder still inside. Harry was smiling benevolently at the embrace of husband and wife when the priest raised his arm and struck him from behind.
“What the—” Roger stared as the priest flung back his hood. “Francis?” he gasped as Harry fell.
“Hello, my friend.”
“Body of Christ!”
“I asked you
not to kill him.” Alexandra knelt beside Harry. “He was kind to me.”
“Ssh, calm yourself. He’s not dead.” Francis bent over and began tearing at the warder’s clothes. “He’ll have a lump on his head, that is all. Hurry, now. Do as I’ve instructed you.”
“What the bloody hell is going on?”
Francis sent Roger a grin. “What do you imagine, you thickhead? We’re saving your miserable life.”
“You’ll forfeit your own. And hers!” Roger’s voice was a whiplash. “Have you lost your wits?”
“My wits are in excellent condition, thank you. Here. Arm yourself.” He lifted his priestly robes and tossed Roger a knife and a sword. “As soon as your wife takes off that gown and changes into Harry’s clothing, you’re going to array yourself like a lady. ‘Tis a mercy Alix is so tall. The couple of extra inches you possess won’t be noticed in the dark.”
“Why, Francis?” Roger asked, even as he took the weapons and jammed them in his belt. “Nothing’s changed between us. I would have hanged you, had Douglas’ men not arrived so opportunely at Whitcombe in September. You call me friend, but there can be no friendship between us now, not again, not ever.”
“Never mind that. We haven’t time for such fine distinctions of rhetoric and honor. You can hang me later. Or cross swords with me again, if you dare.”
“If I dare? I bested you.”
“But could you do so again? Escape, and find out.”
There was a pause while Roger stared at his old shipmate, a rapid succession of emotions storming through his brain. Francis here, free, alive. He had thought of him often during the last few months. Never expecting to see the man again, he’d tried to make his peace with Francis, to understand and forgive him. Had he done so? He feared he had not. But perhaps it would be possible now. And so he said slowly, “If I ever cross swords with you again, ‘twill be with blunted blades, I think. Once such match with death riding on every thrust is all I care to venture. I doubt I would ever wish to tempt the fates so sorely again.”
Linda Barlow Page 53
