Linda Barlow

by Fires of Destiny

  It was a beginning. Alexandra could almost feel the tentative peace being forged between them—feelings of good fellowship, loyalty, and trust that ran far too deeply between these two men to ever be completely destroyed. She smiled as they spontaneously moved toward each other and clasped hands.

  “You and Alix, working together?” Roger said in wonderment.

  “And the lion shall lie down with the lamb. Stranger things have happened.”

  “The question is, which is the lion, and which the lamb?”

  “At present, we’re both lions,” Alexandra said. “Now, hurry up!”

  “I’ve missed you,” said Roger to Francis.

  “And I you. I would have died in your place. But since they would not allow it, rescuing you seemed the best alternative.”

  “We might all die.”

  “So we might. But not at the whim of a vicious executioner.”

  “No,” said Roger, heaving a sigh of relief. He fingered the dagger Francis had given him. He would kill himself rather than die the way the crown had planned.

  Quickly Francis explained the plan. They were to walk out coolly past the guards and get to the bank of the river, where Alan and Richard Bennett waited with a boat. Charles Douglas had undertaken to ensure that the queen’s guard would be slow to respond should any alarm be raised, and he was, at this moment, engaged in a lively dice game with several of the Tower guards. He had promised to lose enough silver at dice to entice more of the fellows to try their luck against him, or at least to provide an entertaining diversion.

  Thus, if their disguises succeeded in getting them past the remaining guards, they should be free and clear. Richard Bennett’s ship, waiting nearby in the river, was ready to sail at the turning of the tide, leaving England far behind.

  Alexandra pulled off her gown and threw it to her husband, then scrambled into Harry’s doublet and hose. The extra fabric in the front that had cradled his potbelly was more than enough to cover the swelling of her pregnancy. Indeed, with his helmet, which fit easily over her cropped hair, and his cloak of office, her body, at least, resembled the wide-girthed Harry. She would have to keep her head down to hide her face. As for Roger, he was so thin from months of prison fare that he fit into her pregnancy-enlarged gown alarmingly well.

  “Couldn’t you have chosen some other disguise?”

  “You don’t fancy life as a woman?” she asked.

  “I don’t fancy having to flee in skirts. Good God.” He paced a few steps. “How do you manage?”

  “Don’t take such large strides. That’s better. Here. Now for the best part. Bend your head down.” She unfolded her thick mantle of hair and began pinning it to his own. “No one will recognize you now.”

  He touched her shining locks with one finger. He seemed stunned. “How could you do this, Alix? Your beautiful hair—it must have taken you years to grow it.”

  “‘Twill grow again. And you will be with me to see it.”

  “Oh, my beloved.” He pulled her close. “I am so frightened for you.” He touched his hands to her belly. “For the babe. Dammit, Francis. Couldn’t you have done this without her?”

  Francis shook his head. “No. She insisted on participating, and there was no arguing with her. You know how stubborn she is.”

  “Aye,” Roger said with a sigh.

  “Besides, we needed her. She still has her writ from the Queen granting her admittance, and no one questioned her right to say her farewells to you one final time.”

  Alexandra finished fastening the hair and skillfully fashioned a wimple, then slipped the hood over his head, allowing the long locks of hair to drift down over his shoulders. “You’re beautiful, ducks. Almost as fair a woman as you are a man.”

  “Stop laughing. There’s nothing funny about any of this.”

  “On the contrary, we must treat it as a great adventure. I think a joyful attitude will help us all immeasurably. There, now. Are we ready?”

  Francis had bound Harry hand and foot and laid him on Roger’s cot. He covered him with the blanket and turned him toward the wall. “If anyone should pass, ‘twill look as though the prisoner’s secure.” He appraised them both and nodded. “We look like the same trio we were when we entered—a lady, a warder, and a priest. Excellent. Let’s go.”

  *

  It was absurdly easy. They walked down the corridor along which Harry had led them, Alexandra boldly leading the way, swaggering a little as she imitated Harry’s walk. No one saw them or tried to stop them. They turned right, moved past the turnoff that led to the executioner’s apartments, around a corner, then down a long, winding flight of stairs. At the bottom, they paused briefly.

  “Now for the tricky part,” Francis whispered. “We’ve got to get past two sets of guards, and Alexandra cannot speak lest her voice betray her.”

  “Neither can I,” said Roger wryly.

  “No, but you can make as if to weep so softhearted Harry the warder will be hard put to comfort you.”

  “And stop taking such tiny, mincing steps,” Alexandra added. “I don’t walk like that.”

  “Complaints, complaints.” Grinning, Roger took several steps, swaying his hips outrageously. “Why don’t I just seduce the guards?” he simpered sotto voce.

  Francis cursed at him, but Alexandra laughed. She threw one arm around Roger. “Cry upon my sturdy shoulder, dearie.”

  Just then two guards came around the corner, heading for the stairs. They both greeted Harry, who grunted a low reply while Roger let loose a convincingly high-pitched sob and clutched at the “warder’s” shoulder.

  “The Baroness Whitcombe,” Francis said smoothly to the guards. “She’s just seen her husband for the last time.”

  “Aye, I recognize her by her red hair,” said one as he passed them by.

  “Poor lady,” said the other.

  “Poor husband!”

  They disappeared up the stairs.

  “We’re hot,” Roger exulted. “Come on, let’s keep going.”

  With a similar performance of grief, they approached the gatehouse that led into the grassy courtyard of the fortress. There were two burly guards in the stone archway.

  They seemed to know Francis, whom they greeted civilly; and they, too, apparently recognized Alexandra’s red hair, for they made no move to halt the mournful little procession that stepped through the gate and out into the night.

  “I can’t believe this,” Alexandra muttered under her breath as they crossed the courtyard, passed without challenge through the inner walls and mounted the stone bridge that led across the moat toward the outer walls. “Only one more gatehouse to go. We’re going to walk right out under their noses.”

  “Don’t get cocky,” Roger warned. He glanced up at the battlements that towered over them, nodding at a guard. He was armed with a crossbow. “No doubt there are longbowmen, too. Even if we get safely outside the walls, they could still kill us.”

  “I will not dwell on such unpleasant possibilities.”

  They wended their way slowly to the outer gate, the baroness weeping while sturdy, potbellied Harry comforted her and the priest murmured prayers. There were two more sentries, and the gates were closed.

  “Open the gates, please,” said Francis pleasantly.

  “‘Tis a bit late for visitors, Father, is it not?” one of the guards said.

  “The Baroness Whitcombe has been with her husband until the last possible moment. He dies upon the morrow, as you know.”

  “In sooth, the traitor will swing for his crimes.”

  The “baroness” let out a sob when she heard this and turned her face more securely into “Harry’s” neck. “Have you no pity, my son?” said Francis. “The lady is sorely distracted, as you can see. Now, open the gates quickly before she swoons.”

  The tactless guard turned laconically to do so, but his partner took a long look at “Harry” and stepped forward into Alexandra’s path. “Just a minute. Your pardon, Warder, but I don’t believe I
know you. My orders are to open the gates to no one whom I do not personally recognize. Tonight in particular.”

  “Most particularly tonight,” said a third voice. A slender golden-haired man stepped out of the darkened doorway of the gatehouse, his sword poised and ready. “Ah,” said he, “I am not at all surprised. I have been expecting something like this for days. My only astonishment is that you wait until the last possible minute to make your attempt, mes amis.”

  It was Geoffrey de Montreau.

  “Seize them,” he ordered the guards. He pointed to Roger. “This is no lady, but the prisoner himself.”

  Roger did not hesitate. He thrust Alexandra behind him and drew his sword out from under the cloak. “The gate,” he whispered to her as he and Francis, now similarly armed, attacked the two astonished guards. One guard fell immediate victim to Francis’ blade. While he battled the other, Roger took on Geoffrey.

  “You!” he snarled. “Everywhere I go, it’s you, Geoffrey, you. This time you go too far.” Wild with rage, he drove the Frenchman back against the wall.

  “For Celestine!” Geoffrey gasped, fending him off with practiced skill. “I swore vengeance, and I will have it.”

  “For the last time, I did not kill her!” Roger parried a violent attack. “Your convent-educated sister was no paragon. She seduced me, as a matter of fact, and I wasn’t her first. So have done with all this talk of revenge.”

  “You lie! She would never have lain with you if you had not forced her.”

  “As God is my witness, she was no virgin. Nor was there force involved. You carry the loyal-brother act too far.”

  “I was more than a loyal brother to her, do you hear me—more,” Geoffrey cried, hard pressed now as Roger attacked him ferociously. He was an excellent swordsman, but Roger was better. Even Francis, who had dispatched the other guard, acknowledged this. He put up his own sword and let them fight.

  But there was no time. Alexandra was pulling at the heavy gate, and Francis rushed to help her. It creaked open, but not fast enough. The noise must have attracted attention, because somewhere in the distance she heard a shout. Soon other guards would be upon them, armed with pikes, crossbows, swords. Sweet Jesu, there was no time!

  “Hurry up and kill him,” Francis snarled at Roger.

  “No!” Geoffrey gasped. “He must die, Trevor must die! You murdered her. You murdered our child.”

  Roger’s face went pale. “Your child?”

  “I loved her!” Geoffrey was shouting. “I loved her, and you took her away from me.”

  “Body of Christ! Are you telling me you lay with your own sister?”

  “I adored her,” Geoffrey was mumbling, eyes wild. “She was perfect and sensual, more beautiful than the sunrise. No other woman has ever been her match. She haunts me, even now. Celestine!”

  “He is distracted,” Alexandra said. “Leave him, Roger, or the guards will be upon us.” They had the gate open now.

  “You whoreson!” Roger exploded. “It was your child in her belly? A child created in incest? Your misbegotten babe took root outside her womb and killed her. It was you who killed her, Geoffrey. You!”

  “No!” the Frenchman groaned. “You stole her from me, and I will see you in the ground for it.” Like a man in a frenzy, he continued to fight, taking up the precious seconds they should be using to make their escape. Roger had no choice but to continue to duel—his enemy’s movements were wild, furious; if he tried again to disengage, he would die. He was hampered by the long skirts of Alexandra’s gown. Her cascading wig of red hair had already fallen into the dirt, victim of the violence of the fight, and it was fully obvious to anyone who cared to watch that this was no woman fighting for her life just inside the walls of the ancient fortress; this was Roger Trevor himself, notorious criminal and condemned traitor.

  “Run, Alix!” he shouted at her. “Remember the babe. Now. Obey me, damn you, for once in your life!”

  But babe or no babe, she could not leave him. Francis was cursing. Above them on the battlements, a sentry with a crossbow was taking aim at her husband. Geoffrey de Montreau was just in front of her, and the angle of the duel gave the archer a clear shot at Roger’s chest. She saw the guard tense, ready to release. “No!” she screamed. Rushing forward, she shoved Geoffrey toward Roger with all her strength. His sword arm flailed and Roger ducked. There was a whirring sound and a thud, and then Geoffrey crumpled to the ground, a crossbow bolt embedded in his back.

  “Jesus,” Roger muttered, looking up at the archer, who was rearming his weapon. He seized Alexandra’s long skein of hair from the dirt as he took her by the arm and flung her through the gate, following quickly, at a run. “Make haste—into the shadows!”

  “Is Geoffrey dead?” Francis asked as they fled.

  “Aye. I thank you, Alix, for my life. If you had not acted, my heart might well have been that arrow’s sheath.”

  Alexandra made no reply as they tore through the walls, across the road, and down the embankment where the rowboat was waiting to carry them downriver with the tide to Richard Bennett’s ship. Geoffrey, whom she had once vowed to torture, was dead. One who dies. But Geoffrey was one who cannot. And she remembered the Voice’s qualification: In sooth, more will die. In a hail of arrows shall they fall. Oh God, she felt sick inside. How many more would die? An arrow whistled by her head, and then another. Behind them they could hear the pealing of the alarm bell.

  “How much farther?” Roger asked. Ahead of them they could see several figures calling and gesturing to them from the riverbank. “Dammit! We’re still within range of the longbows.”

  This was dramatically confirmed a moment later by a sharp burning in Alexandra’s shoulder. Pain shot down her arm, curling her fingers into a fist. A cry escaped her, and her legs seemed to lose their power. Me? she thought in wonderment. Why had she never expected that it would be she who would die?

  She would have fallen, had Francis Lacklin not scooped her up from behind and swung her into his arms. “She’s hit,” he replied to Roger’s frenzied query. “Grazed only, her shoulder—‘tis benign. I don’t see much blood. Keep going. I’ve got her.” But he staggered under the extra weight.

  Alexandra struggled weakly. “Leave me. I’m hindering you. They won’t kill me, not while I carry a child within my womb. I’m safe, but you and Roger—”

  “Be still. I’ve had your death on my conscience once already, Alix. ‘Twas unbearable. I would give my life for yours if it would erase that blot upon my soul.”

  “It is erased already. By your unselfish actions tonight you have undone all your evil, Francis.”

  She was glad afterward that she had spoken these words, for the next arrow to strike was not benign. They were nearly at the boat, out of range of all but the strongest, most skillful archer, when Alexandra felt a jarring impact, but this time it was not she who was hit; it was Francis. He made no sound, indeed, he lurched a few steps farther toward the river, but then the ground whirled and heaved up at her as they both fell. She whimpered in horror, for she felt his blood, warm and wet and alarmingly profuse. Scrambling out from under his body, she saw that the arrow had sliced right through the side of his throat. From the quick, rhythmic pulsing of the bleeding, she knew at once it was a grievous wound.

  “Francis?” Her awareness of her own minor injury was totally gone.

  There was no reply. She heard a cry, but it was not from him. It was Roger, hurling himself to the ground beside them. “Francis? Francis! Dammit, Francis!” He was shaking the body of the man who had been his closest friend. But Francis was motionless. His lifeblood coursed out like a river. Alexandra turned away, sick. The arrow must have severed the artery. No one could lose that much blood and live.

  Time passed; she wasn’t sure how much. The others were gathering around them, trying to drag them away. She dimly recognized Alan’s voice, Richard Bennett’s. “Come quickly,” said the latter, “the boat is here; we must be swift; there’s no time for mourning now.�
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  She looked back at Francis. The artery was already ceasing its frightful spurting. His heart, she knew, had ceased to beat. Oh God! She gazed into his face. Unlike the usual death mask of those who die suddenly, there was no surprise, no rebellion. His features were peaceful and relaxed; his soul, she sensed, was flying free. Tears crowded into her eyes. He had died saving her, saving Roger. Surely God would accept his sacrifice and forgive him for Will and Ned.

  Another arrow struck the ground, but it was well behind the spot where Roger knelt. She glanced at him; tears were streaming down his cheeks. She slipped her hand into his. “Roger,” she pleaded. “We must go or his death will have been in vain.”

  But Roger grabbed Francis’ shoulder and made as if to pull him toward the boat. “I won’t leave him. He needs a surgeon. We must take him with us. We must try to save him—”

  Alexandra pried his fingers away from the body. “He’s dead, my love. We cannot save him. Not now, not ever. You must accept it. Francis is dead.”

  Roger’s face was a mask of pure agony. “No, Alix. I have to tell him I forgive him. Don’t say he can’t hear me. I can’t let him die thinking I still hate him. I never really hated him, you see. He needs to understand that.”

  Fresh tears gushed out of her eyes. “He knew you forgave him. Some things are clear without words.”

  He didn’t seem to hear her, he wouldn’t leave; he wouldn’t turn away from Francis. Desperately she drew his hands against her belly. The babe, who was moving excitedly within her, rolled beneath his fingers. Roger’s hands were impersonal for several seconds; then they clutched at her, at the evidence of new life burgeoning within her. She felt him shudder, heard him groan.

  “This is your child. She needs you. I need you. The ship is waiting to take us safely from here, and Francis would want us to be on it. Now, come with me, beloved. Come.”